Mr Burns Has Risen from the Grave!
by Fionn Whelan
Summary: COMPLETED! A tale of action, adventure, romance, and the Undead...and The Simpsons! Is good, you try! Please R&R. Sorry About the length, shorter, more direct sequel in the works.
1. The Dead aren't Dead

Legalities: I do not own "The Simpsons". They were created by Matt Groening, God bless him, and the rights to them belong to Matt Groening/Twentieth Century Fox. The characters Eric and Felicia deGeorge are the creations of Jake Lennington, as are the ideas of Rev. Lovejoy becoming a crooked televangelist and Bart and Jessica working at a radio station together. Other concepts and characters and plots are ©2005 Fionn Whelan.

CHAPTER ONE: _The Dead aren't Dead_

Lisa was hit with a shrill blast of noise.

"HEY, WHAT IT IS, SPRINGFIELD! THAT WAS _GREEN DAY_, AND THIS THE MAN HIMSELF, BART SIMPSON. SITTING HERE WITH ME, IS MY LOVELY ASSISTANT JESSICA."

"THAT'S "PARTNER", BART."

"I'LL SAY!"

Beat.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN?"

"YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN."

"BART-MIND…GUTTER. ITS ONLY FREAKIN SIX A.M."

Lisa sighed. She wanted hit that snooze button and try to sleep for the five minutes it would buy here. _Oh well, don't want to be late. Might as well get up._ She threw the comforter off. The cold air hit her like a wave of brilliance. _Stark, shrill reality_.

Lisa poured herself a bowl of whole wheat cereal, and moistened it with some soymilk. With a cuppa of hot tea, she washed down a vitamin pill.

"OKAY, I KNOW, IT'S MORNING, AND IT SUCKS," said Bart "AND WHETHER IT'S THE PARTY TONIGHT, THE GAME NEXT MONDAY NIGHT, OR THAT SLEEP YOU WISH YOU GOT THE NIGHT BEFORE, YOU WISH IT WAS THE NIGHT."

"HOW ABOUT THE BIG DATE ON FRIDAY NIGHT?" Jessica added.

"YER THROWIN' ME OFF WOMAN! SO, LET'S TAKE IT WAAAAY BACK, WITH "I LOVE THE NIGHT" BY BLUE ¨OYSTER CULT."

"SO, WHERE WE GOIN' FRIDAY?"

"THIS IS NEITHER THE TIME NOR THE PLACE!"

Lisa rolled her eyes as she munched her Kashi GO-LEAN®. _That Bart. At least he's got a job._

She showered quickly. The hot water rushed over her, taking the weight of the world off of her shoulder, if only for a few brief moments. Warm and clean, she grabbed her books and set off down the hall.

Lisa had managed to finagle a scholarship to the University of Springfield. She had rented an apartment downtown, and Grandpa helped her pay the rent with his unused Social Security money. Her mother, Marge Simpson, also helped, teaching piano lessons out of her home. With Bart out of the house, and Maggie and Eric in school full time, things money wasn't quite as tight as it had been under Bart, Lisa, and Maggie.

Lisa took the stairs, as she did every morning, as it was, in the long run, faster than waiting for the rickety elevator, and probably safer, too.

The apartment complex was the sort found in many large and medium-sized cities, eight storeys high, made of bricks, with a metal grate elevator, stairwell, fire escape, and clotheslines hanging from the window to window. The top three storeys were fairly shabby, and, when she had moved into it, Lisa's apartment was a den of rats and cockroaches. Repeated spraying, roach traps, a cat, and constant vigilance and scrubbing succeeded in wiping them out. She painted the bare bricks bright, cheerful colours, and, when she felt inspired, painted murals on them. She sealed every hole and gap she could find, used roach traps, rat traps, lines of boric acid, and her cat Marty to stop whatever vermin managed to get past her first line of defence. She didn't have a rubbish bin, but simply threw her trash and scraps into the dumpster below one of her windows. And she never left dirty dishes in the sink. Constant vigilance was the only thing keeping the apartment from slumping into the squalor from whence it came.

Lisa finally reached the bottom floor. She said hullo to concierge, Mr. Short, and his parrot, the apartment's unofficial doorman, Mercury.

"Hello Mr. Short!"

"Hello Lisa!"

"Hi Mercury!"

"BraaaAAAAaak! BUUUUUdha!"

Lisa shook her head and smiled. It had probably heard Mr. Short and his wife talking about her Buddhism.

Lisa mounted her little vespa scooter, put on her helmet, and puttered off to the University.

Lisa was now in her senior year at Springfield University. She was planning on going on to be a professor, perhaps of physics. Her teacher and mentor, Professor Frink, was getting on in years, and his son had gone off to work for NASA, so it was entirely possible that Lisa could take over for him when he retired.

Being in her senior year, Lisa had class only every other day or so. For kicks, and, to argue with the professor, a personal pastime of hers, she had signed up for "Judeo-Christian Ethics: An Introduction", taught by an idealistic young professor named Brian Callahan.

She parked her scooter, and chained it up, then set off in the brisk October air for class. She navigated through the crowds and convoluted corridors until she found her class. She saw her friend Jamie sitting in the crowded auditorium, and waved as she walked over to an empty seat she spied.

The professor, a clean shaven, clean cut fellow, came bursting into the room in his usual mock-dramatic fashion. He set his briefcase and papers on his desk in the centre of the procemeum, and hastily extinguished the cigarette he had been inhaling furiously.

"Good morning," he called, opening his briefcase and shuffling papers about.

A few students responded, some simply lifted a hand or mouthed a 'hello'.

"Alright, today, my ducklings, we shall examine this thing we call," he paused, writing the word on the blackboard, "'Love'. Jamie, what is love?"

"Um, love is when you feel…"

"Wrong!" he called, and he turned and wrote the word 'feelings' on the board, then crossed it out.

"You there, Grimm, should everyone marry their 'true love'?"

"Uhh…"

"Wrong!" he laughed, and he returned to the board and wrote 'marriage?-not always!' in his lopsided, sprawling script.

"Can you ever stop loving someone?" he asked the class. Some said 'yes', most said 'no'.

"Never! That is the first major point about love. _Love is transcendent, of time and space_. But that still does not answer the question 'what is love?'. What love is, class, it is a connection. A bond, a bond between two persons at the very soul. Have you ever heard someone say that they loved someone, but did not like them? That is very true. You see, 'like' denotes preference, and emotion. Love is beyond, transcendent of emotion. Certainly, it may cause a lot of lovely feelings, but those feelings are the symptoms, not the cause."

"_Love is eternal_. It can not be slain by the sword or withered by time. Those of you who read the Bible or attend a church may have heard the phrase "God is Love". That, my friends, is the key to knowing the nature of love! God is the first one to love, HE loved us before we existed, when we were but plans on his drawing board. Out of His Love, our souls came into being. He created us, just so that we might know the Love He has to give, and be able to give to Him that which He would give to us all: all of His Love."

"In God, in Christ, we see the nature of love. Love, if it is true, means sacrifice on the part of the lover, for the sake of the one who is loved. Such was God's love that He gave His Only Son, that God Himself came down from Heaven, to live a life of simplicity, toil, and self-denial. He humbled Himself and became man, offered Truth and Eternal Life, and ended up dieing at the very hands of those he came to save. By that love, that sacrifice, man is redeemed, made good. As love is eternal, and so is God, Who is both love and love's author. Thus, the argument for the Resurrection, but that's another lesson altogether."

"St. Augustine, in his _Confessions_, talks about the effect of man's fall on his copacity and ability to love. St. Augustine wisely saw that love in this life is inseparable from loss. We love, say, a beautiful beach town we visited as children, a place our family has visited since the 1910's. We go there one, year, and it is overdeveloped, and the water is poisoned with farm runoff. We love a pet, and it dies. We love a friend, and she dies. Every must end…except love. Except God. You see, it is natural, but foolish to love person for their own virtues, because, they are imperfect, impermanent. We are sad when, say, our child moves out of the house to pursue his own fortune, or when a loved one leaves, for they are no longer with us. That is selfish love, the kind of love that brings pain. When we love God above all, and when we love all people as God's children, then, it does not matter whether they are in our house or on the moon, for we are united by God. If a person we love dies, and we love them perfectly, then we are not sad. Their life of pain and toil is over. If they are in Heaven, then they will never suffer fear or sadness or loss ever again. If they are in Purgatory, then they will get to Heaven eventually, for certain. And, God forbid, they end up in Hell, then that is where they deserve to be. Either way, justice, justice, which we see only in its imperfection in this life, in courts and angry armed mobs, in this sorry world of compromise, is seen fulfilled in perfection in the next world."

The bell rang.

"Homework: read the first hundred and twenty five pages of _The Confessions_ by next Monday. Have a good week! If you have any problems or questions, you can reach me by e-mail or see me in my office Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays from one to five!"

As was her habit, Lisa stayed after class to argue. She had raised her hand several times during the class, but he had somehow overlooked her each time.

"Prof. Callahan!"

"Yes, Miss Simpson?"

"Why didn't you call on me today?"

"Oh, you know how it is, Lisa. They are here so I can teach them. You are here to further shorten what little life alcohol, cigarettes, and caffeine have left me with."

"So, what was it you meant when you said that you shouldn't always marry your true love? Isn't that's what marriage is all about?"

"Hardly," he replied, tossing his papers into his briefcase and snapping it shut, "Walk with me."

"You see," he continued, once they were out in the sunlight, "The concept of romantic marriage has ruined the institution. Marriage's prime purpose is to make children and to raise them in a loving home. Love should be there, yes, but it shouldn't be the main reason you marry someone. Sure, you love each other, but does he have a job? Can he give you a home? Is she capable of having children? Is he of the same religion as you?"

"Oh sure. Marry some ugly old pervert your parents set you up with because he's got cash and is a "good Christian", and get stuck baking muffins and squeezing out babies for him until he dies of syphilis and leaves you with twelve crying babies."

"I was advocating nothing of the thing. People just need to understand love before they go off and marry someone for it. Love isn't a feeling: people getting married off of a feeling is why we have so many divorces."

"Well, if it's not a feeling, or 'just something you just know', as has been said in so many movies, then what?"

"Marriage is a vocation, Miss Simpson. It has to something carefully aand rationally considered, and prayed on. Like, after college, I thought about joining the seminary, so I asked God what He wanted for me."

"What did God say?" Lisa asked sarcastically.

"'Stay out of those damned seminaries! They're filled with queers!' What, they are, just like the movie industry or San Francisco city hall!"

"Anyway, professor, I'm gonna go get a snack or something. Bye!"

"Good-bye, Miss Simpson."

Lisa left the campus and crossed the busy street. She went into Starburkes, and ordered a low-fat Venti soy vanilla café latte with extra foam and a chocolate biscotti. She sat outside at enjoyed her mid-morning snack, watching the people. Finishing her biscotti, and with just a few sweet drops left in her cup, she took her pocket harmonica out and played. The saxophone was her life, but it was impossible to carry everywhere. She began playing "Clementine", just for practice. A passer-by dropped some change on her table.

"Oh yeah, real funny," she sneered. She watched the rude passer-by walk away. A person on the other side of the street caught her eye, if only briefly. The traffic signal changed, and she lost him in the rush of cars and buses.

She walked back to campus. She was on her way to the library, when she met her old fried, Allison.

"Hey Lisa!"

"Hi Al. How's Bio-chem?"

"Ah, well, can't complain. My brain feels like it's throwing off sparks, and we're only on to photosynthesis. How are your classes?"

"Alright, just tying up a few loose ends for my last year."

"Say, me an' a few of my friends are going to the Norah Jones concert in the park Thursday, and I have a spare ticket. Wanna' come?"

"Sure. I mean, my only class the next day is at noon."

"Great. I'll see you at the park at seven then."

"Sure thing."

"Later."

"Yeah. It was nice seeing you again!"

Lisa went to the library to read for a while. She didn't have any homework, or studying, she just wanted to read in quiet for a while. After an hour or so of _Nicho-Machean Ethics_, she left campus for the day. She stopped at Zippy's for a salad, then went to the gym for an hour.

She went home. She boiled the water for some noodles. She rummaged through the fridge, and found some teriyaki sauce. She ate her meagre dinner, showered, and drifted off to sleep.

Her dreams were grey scapes of shifting shape and shadow. The face of the stranger, the slave of Burns, drifted about in the fog.


	2. Maggie's Nightmare

CHAPTER TWO: _Maggie's Nightmare_

Maggie tossed and turned. Inside her head, green flames licked the lining of her skull. The green fog spread, thick in each breathe.

The air was stifling. She was by the shore of a river. The black, viscous waters separated the two shores.

"Child…the pain you bear…the pain that your mind can not conceive…."

She heard a voice, sweet, and aged, like old rubber bands being gingerly plucked.

"What pain have you known…that your mind has hidden…that your heart could not contain…poor child! You mind can not remember, yet the heart can not forget! Come, little one! Come, Margaret, take my hand, and I shall take you across. You shall forget all of the world of heat and bright, piercing light! In eternal twilight, you soul may at last find succour, and your soul shall fly, free of the surly bonds of reason and doubt!"

"You shall dance in the dusky gardens, and chase the owl and the moth through fields and ravines that call to you, call you to stay, stay. Linger and hide, forever!"

She looked away, her head swirling.

"Cast it aside, and I shall take you across!"

Her mind was sinking, sinking into the miring smoke.

"Cast it aside!"

She felt a thin, cool chain around her neck. It was the only tangible substance. She seized it, and felt it bite into her dull flesh as she pulled it taught. The brittle chain snapped. She felt cold, burning hands snatch her up. They sunk into her like steel pinchers, twisting her and breaking her in their cruel grip. Her stomach was sour, her mouth tasted of spoilt milk. She ran to the bathroom. She flicked on

She awoke, and, following standard procedure, sat straight up and screamed. The light, bright, dizzying, chased away the shadow. She swooned and fell at the toilet. Her gut lurched, and she vomited. She heaved, her body struggling to cast out the poisonous touch, the maddening, moonlit eyes.

She gasped for air, the acrid taste swirling in her mouth, her throat tender and raw. Gentle footsteps thudded behind her. She looked over her shoulder, and saw her young brother Eric looking at her with sad, sleepy eyes.

"Are you sick Lisa?" he asked in his quiet, raspy voice.

"Naw. Jus'…a bad dream, tha's all," she said, her throat still struggling with the surges of vomit.

"Another nightmare?" he asked.

"No. BLAAH! Same one."

"I've been having nightmares too!"

"Well it's little wonder with you," she said, flushing the toilet, "Watching all those movies."

"They don't scare me!"

"Whatever," she said, pouring herself some mouthwash.

"Will you tell me what it was about?"

She spat in the sink.

"No."

"Why not?"

She turned to faucet, and rinsed her mouth.

"Because, I don't want to give it to you."

"Dreams aren't contagious, Maggie."

"Well, you wouldn't understand it anyway. G'night," she said, walking past him.

"'Night," he said, watching her walk off to bed.

He extinguished the light.


	3. Mon Pauvre Pere

CHAPTER THREE: _Mon Pauvre Pere _

Fr. O'Flaherty walked painfully to his desk. He opened his cabinet, and took out a tattered old book bound in worn, faded leather. The opened the old tome, and thumbed through to the page where the neat, tightly wound writing stopped. He took out a dull quill pen, and a small pot of red ink, and resumed his writing.

_The Vampyr can spread their affliction to others by many means. _

_The first and most certain means of becoming a vampire is by Satanic Pact. Thus was the First Vampyr, known now as Dracula, the Son of the Devil, came into being. _

_The second, and second most certain means of producing another of the UnDead, involves a willing convert. A person, willing to share in the restless slumber of UnDeath, drinks the fatal blood of a vampire. The vampire repeatedly drinks of that person's blood, while the said person continues to drink of the vampire's. By this unholy process, the person will die and invariably become one of the UnDead._

_The third, most common way of becoming a vampire is to be bitten, and, by being repeatedly sucked of one's blood, die by the Vampyr. This is the way most vampyrs in existence to-day became as they are. For most, it is an involuntary transformation, yet, after the first bite, most find it impossible to resist. Seeing, and being victimized by the vampire, becomes a thing equally hated and yearned for. The diabolical personality of the Vampyr makes their presence, for those who have been attacked, enthralling and addictive._

_As I mentioned once before, not all who are bitten by the Vampyr shall become like him. First of all, it most often requires repeated drainings, to the point of death, to be turned. Also, even if one should die by a vampire's bite, they are not necessarily doomed to become UnDead. Baptized infants, younger than seven years of age, are immune to the Curse of the Vampyr. Any baptized adult, who is a practicing Christian, is living in a state of grace, and is a virgin, is generally safe from the Vampyr. A Catholic Christian, living in a state of grace, is also safe from the becoming a vampire. _

_The fourth, and least common way of becoming Vampyr, which has not been seen for over fifty years and, please God, will not be seen again, is by birth._

_Normally, the Vampyr are infertile and im-potent. Carnal union, between a vampire and another, or between the living and the UnDead, is a foul, unpleasant, and, ultimately, fruitless sacrilege. However, if a vampire leaves the land of his birth, and, in another land, lives amongst its people for seven years, and is not exposed as what he is, then he may, with a mortal spouse, produce a mortal child._

_This child, while not Vampyr, will after his seventh birthday, unless baptised, will not die, but become one of the UnDead. The best example of this phenomena is the case of Alucard, the child of Dracula. _

_As for the case the Dhwampyr, they-_

There was crash. The old father's pen stopped, and he stood, his hand on his stiff back. Another crash, and the shattering of glass. He opened one of his desk's drawers, and pulled out a pistol. He cocked the gun, and strode forth.

The noise seemed to be coming from his room. He crossed himself, and closed his eyes, focusing all his strength. He threw open the door.

Darkness there, and nothing more.

The room was dark, and still. The wind blew in through the shattered window and fluttered the thin, lacy curtains. Thin, dusty rays of light shone through the darkness upon the shards of glass upon the floor. A piece of paper on his nightstand rustled in the wind.

"Hello, padre." a nasally voice said from behind him, and he felt the hard, round barrel of a gun being shoved into his shoulder.

"Drop it!"

The priest's pistol fell to the floor, thudding softly on the musty carpet. He stepped forward, then turned, stared into the shadows.

"Who are you?"

The stranger stepped into the pale moonlight. I was Waylon Smithers.

"You…but you were killed!"

"Was I?" he taunted, tilting his head.

"Are you one of the Vampyr?"

"Well, it's an interesting story. You see, I _was_ quite literally ripped to pieces by the vampires. My head, in fact, was ripped clean off my neck! But, in the chaos and confusion, one of the walls opened, and a robot picked up my disembodied head, and took it to a secret laboratory within the manor. My head was placed in a vat of nutritive fluid, and oxygenated blood was cycled through my severed blood vessels."

"You see, in this lab, The Master had many clones of himself, and of me. One of these clones was selected, taken out of suspended animation, and administered steroids and growth hormones to hasten development. In five years it had reached the physical age of eighteen, at which time its brain was removed and replaced with mine. It took a while for my brain to get used to moving a body again, and form the nerves to heal, but in time, they did. And now, ten years later, fifteen years after my presumed death, I'm here for my master's ashes!"

"They're gone. I threw them into the sea! You can go fish 'em out if ye want!"

The man's face fell. His jaw hung, half-open, as he shook his head, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"He's lying," a woman's voice called. A woman, clad in a long, red dress, sashayed into the room. Her short hair and round, gleaming face were as white as the moon, and her lips were so red that it could be seen even in the blue moonlight.

"Who is she?" the priest said, not turning to look at her.

"She is Violet, a vampiress. She has come to help me resurrect The Master."

"He still has them. They must be here somewhere," she said, her fiendish grin revealing her sharpened fangs.

"Where are those vials!?" demanded Smithers.

"I'll not tell you. You can look if you want. Ye'll be here all night and then some."

Smithers lowered the gun, his eyes wild, the maddening light making him look even madder.

"I'm not afraid, you sick bugger."

"But what about her?" purred the vampiress, and her arm stretched like taffy around the corner and into the hall. She pulled it back in, a small child now clutched in her vicelike grip. One of Apu's daughters dangled above the floor by her hair, tears trickling from her eyes. The priest felt his heart drop.

"Tell me, _priest_, can you just sit there and watch me kill a child, an unbaptized, hell-bound heathen child, because of your impertinence?"

The priest was at a loss for words. His mind was numb.

"Well, I guess that means 'yes'" she said, and she opened her mouth, her jaws unhinged, and her face contorted. Her gleaming fangs extended, and her eyes began to glow like embers. She seized the child and tilted her head, exposing her neck.

"Wait! Please, I'll tell you!" he blurted.

Smithers grinned. Violet was disappointed; she was hungry.

"Where?"

"Give me the child first, and I will tell you," he said slowly and deliberately.

Violet looked to Smithers, her clawed hands still tilting the child's head painfully. She smirked, and tossed the child to the priest.

"Where!?"

"Under my desk, you will find a loose floorboard. Lift it, and you will find what ye want."

"Show us."

The priest, holding on to the frightened child's hand, led them to his study. He shoved his desk forward some, his back screaming in protest. He got down on his hands and knees, and lifted up the loose board. Twelve gleaming vials, with gilded crosses upon them, lay on a bed of straw. The priest handed them to Smithers, who placed them in a dusty carpet bag.

"There. Now away wit' ye!" he barked.

"Nighty-night, padre." the vampiress laughed. They walked to the door. Smithers turned.

"Just one thing more, priest."

"What?"

Smithers brought up his gun, and fired. The hot, leaden slug shot into his gut.

"Thanks."

The Fr. O'Flaherty fell to the floor, clutching his side. Hot, red blood trickled forth. He heard, just barely, through the fog of pain and the throbbing in his ears, the screech of rubber.

Apu's daughter ran to the phone.

"Hello, 9-1-1? This is Uma Nahasapimapetilon. Someone has been shot! No, for once, it is not my father. I am at the priest's home near St. Anthony's, and some maniac has just shot him! Yes, he is still alive, but he is bleeding horribly. Yes, thank you."

Father Malloy heard the blast and the car speeding away. He leapt out of bed, and ran over to Father O'Flaherty's residence. He found him lying on the floor, holding his side, his black priestly garb shining with blood. The little Indian girl was holding his hand, crying.

"Father…what happened?"

The old priest opened his mouth. His lips tried to form words he had not the breathe to say. The Fr. Malloy set his hand over the one on the old man's side and said:

"Are you sorry for all of your sins?"

Fr. O'Flaherty gasped, and nodded.

"And for any offences you may have committed against God?"

Another gasp, a shorter, weaker, more painful nod.

"I absolve you of all your sins…in the name of The Father, and The Son, and the Holy Spirit."

The old father mouthed the word 'amen'.

The ambulance arrived shortly, and rushed the old priest, then unconscious, to the hospital. Father Malloy drove little Uma back to her home.


	4. Gaudium et Spes

CHAPTER FOUR: _Gaudium et Spes_

"It's the strangest thing. First, I see Smithers, even though he's been dead for nearly fifteen years, and the next day, Father O'Flaherty, the old priest that you said helped you save me from the vampires."

"Oh, Lisa, I'm sure its all just a big, strange coincidence."

"Lis, I saw Smithers die. Fifteen different vampires ripped him into confetti. They shredded him!"

"Could it have been his ghost then?" Eric asked.

Lisa shook her head.

"May I please have some more meatloaf, Mrs. Simpson?" Nelson asked politely.

"Of course, Nelson. Have all you want," Marge said, placing a thick slice on his plate.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Mom, Homer, Friends, Siblings, I have an announcement too make," Bart said, standing up and raising his glass of malt liqueur.

A wave of excitement flowed through the room. Lisa smiled warmly, Marge's eyes began to well with tears.

"We're engaged!" Jessica blurted, holding out her hand, which now sported what appeared to be a paper ring.

"What is that?" Lisa said, leaning to get a better look.

"I went to jewelrey shop after several rappers blew through, so I put in the order for the ring I wanted and pain for it. It's a really good one."

"I'm proud of you, son," Homer said, standing and walking over to the young couple, "Bart, this more than makes up for all the trauma of thinking you were gay that one time."

"You thought I was what now?" Bart said, raising an eyebrow.

"Bart, it doesn't matter what I thought or what your sexual orientation turned out to be, it just matters that today, I can finally say, that I'm glad Marge forgot her pill that night."

He drew his son into an awkward, one-sided hug.

"HAW-HAW!" Nelson laughed, "Your life of freedom is over!"

His cell phone rang.

"Yeah?"

"Where the HELL ARE YOU!? I've been watching your son all day, and he's been screaming and SCREAMING AND SCREAMING since two! 'Where's Papa?' 'I want Papa!' You get your ass over here NOW! I work and slave, changing diapers, sweating over a hot stove, while you're out there drinking with your friends!"

Nelson hung up.

"Man. Talk about irony," he said, shaking his head, "Well, I better be headin' on out. Smell y'all later. Bart. Jessica. Mrs S. Lisa."

"Bye," Lisa said with a quiet smile.

"Later, Dude!" Bart said. Nelson went, grabbed his hat and coat, and said a few more succinct farewells, and left.

"So, when's the wedding going to be?" Maggie asked.

"Sometime in June," said Jessica

"I hope that you get reservations soon," Marge said, shaking a finger, "You know that this is the time of year that everyone proposes."

"We will, don't worry," Bart said, rolling his eyes.

"Which church will it be at?" asked Millhouse, who had been silent for most of the time, staring at Lisa with misty while he half-heartedly toyed with the food on his plate.

"Well, we shopped around, and, as neither of is have any intention of ever setting foot in Rev. Lovejoy's church again,-(Rev. Lovejoy had left Springfield to pursue a career in televangelism, and was currently in jail on the combined charges of embezzlement and possession of a controlled substance)-and as I doubt that either of us wish to be wed in the Jewish faith, I decided that it should be at St. Andrew's," explained Bart.

"But you aren't Catholic!" Marge exclaimed.

"Is that one of those churches where they get drunk and dance around with snakes?" Homer asked excitedly.

"No, Dad, it's an old and very mainstream Christian denomination," said Lisa.

"Aww…"

"Well it is a nice old church…" Jessica started.

"And, it's small. Only family and very close friends!" Bart added.

"Hrrrmmm…" murmured the three Simpson women.

"Plus, it's for Rev. O'Flaherty. We owe it to him for all that he's done for us. He's the closest thing to a father I've ever had!"

"Hey!"

"Well, it would be nice, but I don't think that it would work out," Lisa said, "He's seventy-five years old, and is in the ICU for a gunshot to the gut. Even if he survives, I doubt that he'd be able to go back to work."

"C'mon, Lis. This guy's hardcore! He's fought vampires, mummies, werewolves…he's like Van Helsing, only better written!" Homer cheered.

"He said that he's gonna' keep working till he drops dead hearing confessions!" Bart said enthusiastically.

"What was that about vampires and mummies?" Jessica asked confusedly.

"And besides," Bart continued, ignoring his fiancé's question, "Even if he retires, I'm sure he'd be happy to say our wedding."

"Well, I wouldn't make anymore plans until I knew for sure that he would be okay with it."

The young couple, Millhouse, and the DeGeorges left after desert and coffee. Bart asked Jessica if she would like to join him at him place for a drink. Knowing full and well that "a drink" was not "just a drink", she accepted.

They arrived at Bart's apartment. It was cluttered with posters, exercise equipment, and assorted electronics and gadgets. He scrounged about and found a bottle of cheap red wine. They sat on his couch, and, from plastic cups, drank to each other.

The wine worked it's magic spell. Their faces grew flushed, and reason began to retreat from fiery passion. Wine and glasses discarded, they kissed. At first, just light, fluttering pecks about the lips and face. As they grew bolder, they kisses grew fiercer and longer. Jessica threw her arms around him. He picked her up in his arms, and, staggering under both her weight and alcohol's dizzying influence, he carried her to the bedroom. He stumbled and they both fell onto the bed. Jessica giggled giddily. She started to kiss him again, but felt his lips grow taught and his hands start to push her back.

"What's wrong?" she asked, feeling something had to be horribly amiss for a heterosexual male to try and stop what was clearly going to happen.

"Jess, there's something you need to know…" he said, all humour and gaiety gone from his voice.

_Oh crap,_ she thought, _here it comes._

"It happened when I was ten, and involved that old priest…"

_Oh, dear God, no! Poor Bart!_

"Bart…look, we don't have to do this. If he…you know…"

"What? Molested me? Hell no! No one diddles the Bartman; I was gonna tell you about the thing about the vampires and such. You see, Fr. O'Flaherty was once a member of a secret society that hunted vampires and…"

She stopped his story with a kiss.

"Hmm-hmm," she laughed, "Tell me later."

"Gladly!"

He took a remote out of his pocket, lowered the lights to a dim glow, and turned on the stereo. Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get It On", started playing.

"Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!" Bart laughed, rubbing his hands together.

What? Expecting explicit 'fluff'? Nope, I cut out here. For those who were getting hopeful, know that, for future purposes, I do not do 'fluff', nor do I do hentai, shou-diddlies, slash, or any other crap like that. I am a romantic, not a bleeding pornographer.


	5. The Curse of UnDeath

CHAPTER FIVE: _The Curse of UnDeath_

The night was dark and cold. The waning moon filled the dale with her dim light, more concealing than illuminating. She danced through the heavens, her light slowly fading, trying to hide herself behind the black wisps of cloud.

In the courtyard of the Burns manor, Smithers, Violet, and Dr. Nick Riviera stood before an intricate stone design, waiting. Smithers checked his watch. The second hand twitched. It was midnight. He nodded to the vampiress.

"Pour the blood!" she ordered.

The doctor pushed a large canister, toppling it. It's contents, seeming black in the moonlight, poured forth. The thin veins of liquid ran along the many grooves of the stones, forming an intricate symbol: a many-armed goat, standing atop an inverted cross, by which the image of a woman was weeping. The blood collected in a deep basin in at the goat's heart. It trickled it through many tiny channels. It slowly the small black pile that lay at the bottom of the pool.

The blood had spread out fully. The pool at the centre of the sigil was full to the brim. Silence.

They doctor walked over to the other two, who stared anxiously at the pool of blood. Nothing. A tear welled up in one of Smithers' eyes.

A shadow passed over the moon, and the city was plunged into darkness. The wind picked up, bringing cold, stinging air from the north.

A bubble rose. It came to the surface of the pool of blood, and popped. Then came another, and another, and then several, all at once. The pool began to froth and foam. A ball of flame like mist, a brilliant blue will-o-wisp, appeared above the pool, and settled on it's surface. It spread across it, stilling the bubbling blood. It faded, dissolving into the blood.

A round head broke the surface. Mr. Burns' emaciated form ascended from the blood, the thick, clinging liquid running off of his skin as though he were oil.

He strode forth, his long, thin limbs moving with the tremulous grace of a marionette. He looked up at the sky, a distant look upon his countenance. He turned toward Smithers and the Vampiress, who genuflected before him. With a motion like the strike of a snake, he held out his hand. His signet ring gleamed upon it in the dim light.

Crawling forward like infants, they kissed it adoringly.

"Bring me clothes…" he commanded in a soft, terrifying voice. Smithers rose, and picked up a long, fur-lined robe. He placed it over his master's shoulders, then backed away, bowing. The Vampyr lord looked to his slave.

"I thirst," he growled.

Both Smithers and the vampiress looked at Dr. Nick. He turned, and began to back away nervously.

"Well, it's great to see everything turned out okay. Mr. Burns, good luck with that world domination thing. Heh heh. Hoo."

He turned and ran. Smithers and Violet tackled him to the ground, and punched and kicked him until he ceased to struggle. They seized him by each arm, and threw him before Mr. Burns.

"Good-bye, Dr. Nick!" he laughed viciously.

His jaws extended out, stretching like a snake's. His sharp fangs grew longer. His eyes began to glow a smouldering red. He sank his fangs into the doctor's neck. With thick, powerful gulps, he swallowed his blood. He felt it flow into his veins. The blood vessels in his face began to swell with each powerful suck. He felt the heart of his victim slow, weaken, flutter…cease. The blood began to cool, and taste sour. He tossed the body aside as though like it were a doll. He rose to his full height, bright blood staining his lips and throat.

"Bring me more!"


	6. The Message

CHAPTER SIX: _The Message_

Bart awoke. He was felt overly warm, and the sheets clung to him with sweat. He felt the discomfort of an arm under her back, and another across his chest. As he turned to see the person next to them, the warm, glowing memory of the previous night flowed back into him; a warm, comforting wave. In the pale, predawn light, he saw her face, her long hair, her flushed cheeks, her thick black lashes. She looked so at peace, the world of pain and toil beyond her.

He gently plied her arm from his chest, and placed it on the pillow beside her. He pulled the covers over her naked shoulder. A peaceful smile tweaked the corners of her mouth, and her eyelids clenched as she nuzzled her pillow. He stood there a moment, adoring her with his loving gaze. Cautiously, he planted a light, prayerful kiss upon her cheek. She made a small noise, like a cooing dove.

"I love you," he said, and never in his life had his heart more truly felt those three, simple words' meaning more fully.

He showered, washing the sweat and the stickiness from his skin. A small silver medallion, once bright and gleaming, now dull from wear, hung from his neck. He tiptoed back into the bedroom, and put on his sweats. He stretched his arms and legs, slowly calibrating his breathing. He left the apartment, and made special care to lock the door.

He walked down the hall, and took the stairs down to the ground floor. Outside, he stretched some more, and started off, slowly working his body into a run.

He jogged through the dim streets. The streetlights were still on, their stark, yellow glow clashing with the faint, growing blue that was fanning outwards from the west.

As he jogged up to a dark alley, a figure stepped out directly in his path. Darkness concealed his form and his face.

"Hello Bart," the deep, honeyed voice intoned.

"Sideshow Bob!" he gasped in a frightened whisper.

"Yes Bart, it is I. So good to see you again."

The man stepped into the dim pall of the lamp. Indeed it was Robert Terwilliger, the one whose life was once consumed with trying to kill Bart. Age had tempered him, and changed him. His hair was shorter, more manageable. He had lost the plumpness his life as an actor had given him, replacing it with the thin, muscled look of a fugitive. Round, dark spectacles sat on his prominent nose. Clad in a long black coat, with a wazikashi on each hip, he looked particularly menacing. A warm smile came to his face, and he set his hands upon the young man's shoulders, and a tickled chortle rose from his throat.

"Bart. Bart, dear boy, look at you! The round bellied, puckish young scamp I last saw twelve years ago, now a strong and handsome youth! So good to see you old friend!"

"Yeah, good to see you, too. I see that life on the lamb has had it's toll."

"Yes, well, it's not been easy these past twelve years. I've never had a moment's rest, you see. I've spent only two or so years in the country, you see. I fled to Canada, then off to the wilderness of Alaska. I waited a few months there, while my few friends arranged for me a transport to Russia. I spent a few years there, living in a desolate little village next to the Ural mountains. I spent a few years in Bahrain, enjoying the warm seas and sunny beaches. But, as you know, what with the terrorism and all, the Middle East is not a good place to be found. I worked my way across Asia, avoiding official documentation and, well, legal travelling as much as a possibly could. I found my way to Japan, where I have spent the last four years with the Yakuza. That is where I got these two beauties," he concluded, setting his hand on one of his swords.

"So," said Bart, who had caught his breathe during the long exposition, and was now standing erect, "Why'd ya come back?"

"Various reasons. First, the search for me has pretty much cooled off. I faked my own demise at least thrice, thus, for the most part, throwing off my pursuers. Second, I have earned much money working for the Japanese mafia, and am able to retire and live out the rest of my days in happy solitude in the town that I love. But, most importantly of all, I heard that my favourite young man was getting married!"

"How did you know that?"

"My dear, boy, I worked for the mob! And, as you know, many businesses in town, including the one where you ordered your wedding and engagement bands, are controlled by the mob! Fat Tony, you see, is still in fairly regular communication with the underworld, and, hearing that you and a beautiful woman, had ordered an engagement ring and two wedding rings, he contacted my Yakuza overlord, and I came!"

"Really, you came all the way here just to see my wedding?"

"Well, that and to escape from Interpol."

"Oh."

"But, Bart, the joyous news has been pushed out of my mind by graver matters!" he said, seizing Bart's arms and looking at him with gravely, "_He_ has returned!"

"Wha…? Who?"

"Charles Montgomery Burns. He has been resurrected by Dark Magick."

"No…he can't! Fr. O'Flaherty destroyed him! He's dead!"

"There are some evils that can not been slain for as long as this world exists. Burns has been reanimated from his ashes. By Waylon Smithers."

"But…"

"Did your sister not see him three days ago? Have not your sisters' dreams been haunted by his face, and that of his master, of late? Did Vicar O'Flaherty not get shot the next day? Was his house not broken into? Did the police not say that it seemed as though it were burglarized? And now, I come and tell you that Smithers has resurrected his master?"

Bart was horrified. He felt the warm medal press against his chest.

"We must prepare, Bartholomew. Once again, we shall be called to fight on the front lines in the war between Heaven and Hell. Protect yourself, Bart. But even more importantly, protect the girl. She has not faith, and, though your love is true, through it, Burns and his minions may be able to exploit you, and destroy you. Protect her, and that shall be your best protection."

Bart stared for a moment, his mind misted with the strange truths now throw in his face. He nodded.

"I shall need to meet with you and the others later. Your parents, I fear, may be too old to help us, but you and your sister, and your fiancé may. I want you to visit the hospital and speak with the priest, and see if he can offer any important advice. The young priest, he must be made to know the truth. He may be difficult in convincing, but perhaps if he speaks to Father O'Flaherty he can be made to understand. Either way, I shall need you, your sister, your woman, your parents, the priest, if possible, and any friends that you can convince to meet Tuesday night at the Maison Derriere at 9:30. There, we shall lay our plans."

He gave Bart a stern nod, and then started towards the dark alley. The sky was now much lighter, and the street lamps had faded.

"Until then Bart, farewell."

Bart watched as he mounted a large motorcycle that he had parked in the alley. He revved the mighty engine, and took off with a screech.

Realizing that he had no time to finish his usual jog, and being far too flustered to try, he turned about and jogged back to the apartments.

As he entered the house, he saw Jessica walking into the kitchen, wearing his bathrobe about her body, and a towel around her hair.

"Morning!" she said, smiling.

"Good morning," he answered breathlessly.

"Did you have a good run?" she said, walking over to him, and rubbing his tense, muscled back comfortingly.

"Yeah…yeah. How about breakfast?"

"Okay, I'll try!" she said, shrugging.

"I think that I have some waffle batter left over in the fridge."

"You made waffles?" she said, quite pleased.

"Well, it's the store bought stuff, ready-made. Sorry."

"It's okay. It makes good waffles!"

"Okay then!"

"You go shower off, and I'll cook the breakfast," she said.

"Sure you can handle it?"

"Bart, I know how to watch a waffle iron light, and how to brew coffee! You'd think that I was incompetent, as…you!" she said, her laugh wrinkling her nose.

"Alright."


	7. The Next Day

"The moral system is like so: there are four types of purity. Purity of the mind, purity of the heart, purity of the soul, and purity of the body. Purity of the body is not entirely of moral concern. Spiritual purity is the most important. Impurity of the mind causes impurity of the heart, as can impurity of the soul. Impurity of the heart leads to impure desire, which, if gratified, results in decrease or even total loss of the purity of the soul, and often results in further impurity of the mind," explained Professor Brian Callahan. Few in the class paid much attention. The exception to this, of course, was Lisa, who eyes flicked from his, to the board, to her notes, and back to his dark eyes.

Lisa's hand shot up.

"Yes, Miss Simpson?"

"Professor, can these impurities be remedied?"

"Yes, and no. Impurity of the soul is both the easiest to remedy and the hardest to avoid. The soul can be made pure by Baptism, by the Sacrament of Reconciliation, or by martyrdom. However, severe sins, Mortal Sins, leave stains upon the soul. Prayer, fast, Grace, and good deeds can remove these stains over time, as can indulgences."

"Impurity of the heart can be removed, but it takes time and effort. The soul must be cleansed to start with. Then, the person is must pray fervently and with great frequency, and fast and abstain from pleasures of the flesh, immoral or benign. With time, and Grace, he can learn to master his natural, helpful desires, such as for food, rest, and leisure, and, in doing so, master his impure desires."

"The mind is tricky. It can undue one's noble quest, distracting and taunting with memories of past sins. Time alone can heal a damaged mind, though friends, fun, and hard work can keep one focused as the time slowly passes."

"Purity of the body is tough. If a girl is molested, for example, one can not undue it and return her to virginity. However, she is still a true virgin, for no one but oneself can alter one's heart or soul."

"Now," he continued, seeing that Lisa was satisfied with the answer she got, "There are two types of sin: Venial Sin, and Mortal Sin. Venial Sins are the most common; they occur daily. They are petty, minor sins, and not damning in and of themselves. However, small sins add up. They weaken Grace, and damage the purity of soul, mind, and heart. They fan the flames of wicked desire, and lead to ever greater wickedness unless they are regularly purged by Confession and countered by Sacramental Grace. However, there are some sins that even the Saints could not avoid, and we must always remember that our salvation is not dependant upon how many times we say a prayer or go to church, but, ultimately, on God's Own Mercy. So we pray: 'et ne nos inducas in tentationen, sed libera nos a malo'1."

He sighed, and leaned in against his desk. Lisa felt her heart twinge at the sight of the exhaustion, the pain upon his handsome face. He closed his eyes, seeming to be drawing upon a well of strength within himself, a well that was growing ever shallower.

"Now…what is the nature of sin?" he asked, breathless.

Lisa's hand shot up. Jamie, then a few others, raised their own hands. The rest stared blankly.

"Lisa?"

"The nature of sin is inherent evil," she answered confidently. It was not a fact she knew herself, but one she had read the a few nights before during her studies.

"Yes, know…uh…Jacob, what is the definition of sin?"

"Something that is against the Will of God."

"Yes! Now, it may seem petty that something against some guy's will is always evil just because he doesn't like it. But God is without whim or caprice, and His Will is the ultimate of justice, for, in obeying it, we are truly doing the best, indeed, the only thing right for us. God wants us to be happy, and to be perfectly happy, forever. Now, that is not at all selfish."

"Sin arises from three sources: the flesh, the world, and the Devil. Sins of the flesh come from illicit desires, often corruptions of natural desires. Since the Fall, man's higher and lower faculties were set at odds with each other. Once fully in control of his desires and actions, impure impulses can cloud and overwhelm reason. Desire, which, in Eden were only for what was good, can be for what is evil. The seeds of evil lie in the hearts of all men, and, with the right conditions, can take root, and bear wicked fruits."

"Sins of the world come from other men and women. A woman may seduce a man, or, innocently, induce, by her beauty and winsomeness, arouse lust within him. One can be pressured by friends to do something harmful to oneself or others in order to maintain their respect and fickle friendship. Seeing others living in sin, and seeming to be happy with themselves, may prompt a moral man to abandon his principles."

"Sins of the Devil…technically, every sin can be traced to him. He invented sin. He was the first to rebel against God's Will, and prompted Adam and Eve to do the same. At every occasion of sin, he, or one of his minions is there, nudging us towards evil. Every evil action or movement was his making, he merely found people wiling to work with him."

The bell shrieked its rattling cry throughout the halls. The pupils hastily stuffed their papers into their folders or books, then, slinging their bags over one or two shoulders, skipped or walked or ran to the door.

Lisa gently clamped the paper into the binder. She placed the binder in her sack, then zipped it closed. She closed her book and looked up. She saw the young teacher disappear into his office. She picked up her bag and followed him.

She rapped gently the glass window.

"Yes, come in," came a solemn reply.

"Professor…?"

She saw him sitting by the window, watching the students walking through the chill breeze and frail sunlight. His eyes were clouded, distant as the moon.

"Oh, hello Lisa," he said after a pause. He stood and looked at her, a tired smile tweaking his lips.

"I graded all the essays. Yours was the best."

"Thank you! Well, it was a fairly simple assignment: 'Describe the Your Journey of Faith'."

"It was nice how you sprinkled about those Buddhist saying all throughout. They worked both as concrete details as well as transitions."

Lisa smiled earnestly. Brian walked across the small room to a cabinet. He took out a bottle of cognac and two crystal glasses.

"I really shouldn't…during school, I mean, professor."

"Yes, yes. How foolish of me," he said as he hastily placed one glass back. He filled his to the brim, and took a deep, long draught, nearly emptying it of liqueur.

"I…must be going, Professor."

He smacked his lips and sighed.

"Yes."

"Well…I'll see you Friday then. Bye, Professor."

"Goodbye, Miss Simpson."

Lisa turned and left. Brian went and closed the door. He poured himself another drink.

1 "And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil"


	8. A Vision

A Vision

Professor Whelan was late. The bell had rung, and yet he was not present. Murmurs, like weeds, sprung up amongst the students.

"Where is he?"

"Probably hung over!"

"Maybe he's sick…"

"Is there a sub?"

"Idunno…maybe the sub doesn't know where to go."

"Thank you, God! I didn't read!"

Lisa's mind was occupied by heavier thoughts. The growing threat of Burns and his vampyr, the disturbing dreams seemed to foretell only dread things.

At last the young professor appeared. He was wearing the same suit he had worn the day before, and it was wrinkled and stained with sweat and dust.

"Class, there'll not be a quiz today on _Confessions_, today will be a study period."

Lisa repressed the train of thoughts and feelings brought on by this. She had other classes to study for, so this was a blessing. Yet she could not help but gasp when she saw her teacher turn his head, revealing a black eye and three long cuts on the right side of his face.

When class ended, she picked up her books. And left for her next class. She had hoped she might talk to Professor Callahan, just to see if he was all right, her mind half-lied, but he left as soon as the bell had dismissed them.

After another trying day, after which she felt she had learned very little, Lisa stopped by the Judeo-Christian Ethics classroom.

The room was dark, and filled with the dust of autumn. The light fell it bright sheets through the tears and gaps in the curtains, casting long, warm lines across the wood floor. A gentle plucking of guitar could be heard. She recognized it as the opening chords of Alice Cooper's "Welcome to My Nightmare". She sauntered over the door to the professor's office and opened the door. He was at his desk, his back to the door, typing on a computer. The radio was on, most likely of Bart and Jessica's station, judging by the music.

"Yes Lisa?" he intoned.

She felt a bit surprised.

"If you are wondering how I discerned it to be you, well," he said, turning to face her, "I am gifted, let us just say."

"Professor-"

"Just "Mr.", or "Brian", if you like-outside of class, of course."

"Your face-"

"My first encounter with one of the UnDead in years. I got him, I think. Staked him anyway. The cops showed up so I had to just chop off the head and stash it in a dumpster somewhere. If the two weren't reunited he should be permanently gone."

"Are you alright?" she pressed, her worries hardly allayed.

"Oh yes, just a few scratches. Didn't have a chance to bite me. I'm rusty; I haven't fought since I was a student, not like I was good then. Still, most drunken frat boys don't get burned by contact with a holy medal either."

There was a pregnant pause. He continued to look at her, and she glanced at him. His swollen face lacked its usual stoic blankness, a broad and lopsided grin stretching his mouth. His eyes were still gray, and alight with such sadness and longing.

"Well, if you're okay…"

"Miss Simpson...!"

She turned, startled.

"Yes, Professor?"

"Are you overly busy this evening," and as he paused, a look of anxiousness crossed his faced, "because I would love to take you to dinner."

Lisa was caught flat-footed.

"Where?" she asked, a girlish smile blossoming as her voice betrayed her glee. After her freshmen and sophomore years, no one, except, of course, the desperate, clingy Millhouse, had extended her such an offer.

"Pimento Grove, I should think," and he added wittily, "They have good salads."

She grinned.

"Seven okay?"

"Seven _is_ okay."

Another pause of anxiousness.

"So- chuckle -see you then."

"All right."

It was exactly at seven that Lisa heard a loud, sharp whistle. She looked out her window, and saw Brian standing in front of a small carriage. She laughed at the whimsy of it, and hurried down to meet him. She scuttled out the door, only to turn around quickly and rush back to lock it. She dashed again to the elevator and, once out, sprinted across the lobby.

"See ya, Mercury!"

"THE CROW TURNS LEFT! BRAAAK!"

Puzzled by the strange proclamation, Lisa opened the front door. Brian was waiting for her. He wore a white flannel shirt with no tie, and a brown overcoat and slacks. In one hand he had a tweed cap and a pair of gloves, in the other a bouquet of bright and vibrant colour.

"Hi…" she said shyly.

"Good evening Lisa. These are for you," he said in a quiet and civil voice, handing her the bouquet.

"Thank you. I should go put them up in my room…"

"No need!" said he, and he took the flowers out of her hands, stepped back from the building, and chucked them up and her open window. They undershot the mark and fell on a balcony below.

"Woops…"

"Its okay. Marty would've tried to eat them anyway."

"Your cat, Marty?"

"Yes."

He cleared his throat, then, donning his hat and gloves, said, "Well then, shall we depart?"

"We shall." She said with a confident cheeriness.

He helped her into the rig, then took his place on the left side. Lisa noticed a "Club" holding the reins.

"You can never be too careful in this town," he said as he unlocked the device. He looked in the rearview mirror, and pressed a button for the left turn signal.

"Just because it's horse-drawn doesn't mean that it can't be high-tech," he said gaily, and as he jiggled the reins to get the horses going, he pressed a button. A sonic blast came from several speakers that Lisa had neither noticed nor expected to find in a small buggy.

"THIS IS JESSICA LOVEJOY HERE! TIME TO CLASS IT UP WITH "KILLER QUEEN", BY QUEEN, A BAND COMPOSED ENTIRELY…OF QUEENS."

And so they rumbled down the boulevard. Brian explained, as he changed lanes, how he had installed a battery in the buggy, powered by a generator attached to the wheels. He had bought a car radio and installed electric turn signals, headlights, and a speedometer and an odometer.

"And yet it retains all the charm and eco-friendliness of driving a carriage!" he mused.

"But what about the…feces…"

"Oh, there's the genius-I installed catch bags that can be changed every-so-often, either discarded or saved for fertilizer. It's the way of the future. I mean, with gas prices, and the Saudi's funding terrorism with petrodollars."

"And don't forget the finite nature of fossil fuels and the impact the drilling and use of them has on the environment."

Brian rolled his eyes, and turned his head back straight ahead.

"What? Don't tell me that you don't believe in air pollution and limited natural resources!"

"No, no. It's just that there was a time I did. Really. I am cognizant and concerned by the effects our industry and technology has on the environment. There are just two big problems I have: global warming, and the fact that human problems are more pressing and we are obligated to solve them before turning to anything else."

"Well, I agree with the second part, but how could you not believe in global warming!"

"It all matters on whose data you are going by. I mean, there are many, many northern ice caps that are not melting; in fact, they have grown slightly in the past eight years. Some computer systems show that the world is warming, some don't. Some measurements of temperature show no rise at all, show some an overall decrease. And, even if the world is warming, there is considerable proof that it has happened several times before, long before man even existed, which proves global warming a natural phase of the climate, akin to ice ages, completely independent of human pollution."

She looked at him, then looked away shook her head, sighing lightly.

"Shit!" he screamed as a car came rushing in front of them, honking loudly and spooking the horses.

"Whoa! WHOA!" he yelled, tugging on the reigns and pulling the parking brake. He horses whinnied and reared. Brian rushed out and tried to calm them. Slowly, their screeching stopped, and they were dumb and statues.

"Whoa…whoa…thatsmelady…that's my lady…" he cooed gently, stroking the old mare's head.

"How about you, Bruce? That's good," he said, hold it's nose and petting the velvety fur.

Lisa felt her heart softened by his treatment of the animals. Though in his lectures in class he had stated that animals were dumb, soulless brutes meant to serve man, she saw now that he loved these two horses as friends.

They started again, the horses a little more jittery, and they arrived at the Pimento Grove, one of the classier dining spots in Springfield. Thankfully, their table had not bee given away, and they took their seats.

"So tell me," she inquired, holding her glass of wine precariously in her alcohol-increased gregariousness, "What would you say your solution to world energy problems is?"

a

"Well, let's see," he said, putting out his cigarette (the Grove was one of the few restaurants left in town that allowed smoking indoors, 'Just so we look cool," the owner once said), "I say, first of all, we get Russia to allow drilling in Siberia, create an independent state of Southern Sudan so we can get Sudanese oil not mixed with the blood of Christians and Animists, and drill in America wherever we can."

"That's horrible! Even if you could do that, it would only be a short-term solution. Oil's gonna run out, sooner or later!"

"Yes, but short-term solutions are sometimes needed while a long-term one is prepared. For automobiles, we should look to electric, hydrogen battery hybrids, propane, and natural gas, as well as battery hybrids of all three…except for the electric, because that's already battery. They are all, except for hydrogen, cheap and abundant, and, in the cases of hydrogen and battery, almost completely waste-free. For electric and industry, we should phase-out fossil-fuel and nuclear power, and replace them with hydroelectric, wind, tidal, solar, geothermal, hydrogen, and biomass. If we can ever develop a safe and sustainable fusion reaction and are able to use it for energy, we should by all means turn towards fusion, but I don't we'll se that anytime soon. So for now, we need to get off of Saudi oil and works towards getting off of oil altogether. Don't you agree?"

Lisa sat silent, looking at him the golden haze of candlelight. Her mind, too, was ablur.

"What? Oh, yes. Most definitely."

Brian grinned, understanding. He looked at her too, as she had been doing. Her eyes looked back. For a crystalline moment, they saw each other through the Eyes of God. She looked away first.

"What do think about the war?" she asked in French, employing the formal '_vous'_ form.

He paused, lighting another cigarette.

"I do not support it, though I support our troops' courage and hope that they all can be brought home safely as soon as possible," was his answer. He used the informal '_tu'_, a subtlety not lost on Lisa.

_He is a very clever man, one who does focus heavily on detail and subtlety. What was his purpose for doing it though? An expression of his superiority? Perhaps. Perhaps it was just a way of responding to my deliberate use of 'vous'. He may simply be using it as a formality our teacher-student relationship expresses. Or was it from friendship. 'Tu' is the familiar tense…_

"What of building democracy and western civilization in Iraq? Would not a man of your political views find such a noble venture?" she asked. She used '_tu_'. She followed his queue.

He grinned broadly, and drew a long puff from his cigarette. He exhaled through his nose, enjoying and hating the burning, smutty taste. He looked at her, his eyes meeting hers. She felt both frightened and entranced by the way he stared at her with his steely grey eyes.

"Democracy, _ma cher, _can not be imposed upon a people. If they did not spontaneously rise up, overthrow Saddam, and install a constitutional democracy, then they were not, and are not ready for democracy now. Democracy, at its very core, is an expression of the will of the people. A democratic government governs fairly, because it receives its authority from God through the people."

"Well, it is a complex situation," she ceded, in English now, holding her glass with both hands, elbows on the table.

"A very complex situation. But if you boil a complex situation down, all the factions and minutiae melt away and you are left with a problem and a solution." he said, a smile of one with secret knowledge slapped across his glowing face.

"And what does the situation in Iraq all boil down to?"

"First of all: Iraq, as a nation, need not exist. The Shiite regions can be given to Iran, and the Sunni triangle and the empty regions to the west can go to Syria. Out of the Northern Region, and parts of Turkey and Iran, a new Kurdish nation can be created. Thus, the issue of 'Iraq' goes away entirely, and America gets a new friend in the Middle East, Kurdistan, a friend who just happens to have oil coming out of the wazoo."

"Secondly, it is a tenet of the Islamic faith that church and state should not be separated. Islam teaches that a Muslim is only 'free' when living in a state ruled by the Sharia. And the Sharia, as it is practiced in most Muslim countries, means cruelty and oppression to women, non-Muslims, and anyone who objects to the practices of the regime or its religion. Take Saudi Arabia, for example. Women aren't allowed to drive cars, or even leave the house alone. Just last year, a family of foreigners was arrested for holding a private Christmas party in the privacy of their own home! Quite simply, secular constitutional democracy with separation of powers and of church and state is contrary to what Islam teaches."

_He is an intelligent man, and very polite,_ she thought.

The night proceeded as such, bantering back and forth about politics, religion, and philosophy, and the couple was feeling quite jovial by the time the valet brought their carriage out to the front.

"Here's your carriage sir," croaked the Squeaky-Voiced Teen.

"Thank you my good man. Here's a tip," Brian replied, handing him a five dollar bill.

Brian helped Lisa into her side of the carriage, and rounded about to the other side.

Lisa sat on the smooth leather cushions, lost in thoughts and dreams. She felt truly loved, not just loved, but appreciated, seen as an intellectual partner. She blinked. The world of warmth she felt was torn away, shredded by sharp claws. In was dark. The room was faintly blue. A cold hand pressed over her mouth, while another held her hands by the wrists. She felt a cold, pallid breathe upon her neck, and a dry, snakelike tongue ease across it. She screamed, her voice muffled into the pale, clammy palm.

"What's wrong?" Brian asked, knowing that whaterever it was, it was quite wrong indeed.

A knife was drug across her throat. Blood and spittle gurgled from her mouth as she coughed.

Brian was holding her now. She had fallen from the carriage. Before she could even realise that her throat was still intact, her reality faded away.

She was lying on the cold stones. Her lifeblood spilling forth. Her vision driften upwards, out, out of her body. It turned. Eric, Eric was dead too. But it was not her own body lying beside his, but Maggie's.


	9. The First Battle, and the Long and Lonel...

The First Battle, and a Long and Lonely Night

The wheels of the carriage rattled as they raced through the dark streets.

"Are you certain you saw this?" he yelled above the clatter.

"It was like it was really me! And then it wasn't me!"

"Well, at the very least, there won't be any harm in checking."

They were silent for a while, the only sound the clatter of steel horseshoes upon pavement and the rattling of the wheels.

"Switch!" he called suddenly, and simultaneously pulled her over to his side, slid under her to her side, and somehow managed to hand her the reins.

"Whatareyou doing?" she screamed.

He said not a word, but took a key from his pocket and opened a compartment under his feet. He tore off his jacket, pulled off his tie and ripped away his shirt with such force the button popped off. He pulled from the compartment one of Prof. Frink's black dusters. He set it between himself and Lisa and took out a complex jumble of belts and holsters and guns, and worked to fastening it on. Once finished, he kicked off his shoes and worked to lacing up a pair of black boots. He donned the black jacket, shut the compartment, and yelled "Switch" once more.

"Do you have your gun?" he yelled.

"No, but I have my vampire mace!"

"Grab a pistol of some sort!" he called, jerking his head towards the compartment. She opened it, and after some frantic looking picked a semi-automatic pistol.

They arrived at the Simpson's family home. The carriage screeched to a stop. Brian pulled the parking brake and hopped out. Lisa followed. Realizing that she was in heels, she kicked them off and put them in the carriage.

Brian jogged around to the back of the carriage and opened a compartment. He took out two swords, one a katana, one a broadsword, and a hefty backpack. He tossed her the broadsword and they ran to the front door.

Lisa knocked on the door.

"Mom? Dad?" she called.

Brian drew one of his guns, a grave look on his face. Lisa tried the door. It wasn't locked. She looked to Brian-he nodded-and they went in.

Up, up, up the stairs they went. Lisa remembered how she used run down the very steps she climbed every morning for breakfast, or to answer the door, and how she could always retreat up them to the sanctuary of her room.

At the top of the stairs she turned left to her parents' room. She reached for the handle, then, recalling the threat of her vision, she girded the sword about her waist and pulled out her pistol from her purse. Reaching with her left hand, she opened the door.

"Mom? Dad?" she called into the dark.

Snoring. Her dad's thick, rattling snoring. Relief began to wash over her. She heard her mother stirring.

"Mom!"

Marge was pulled across the threshold of slumber.

"Huh? What!"

"Mom!"

"Lisa!" she gasped as she sat up. She turned on the light and grabbed her robe.

"Homie, wake up, Lisa's here!"

"Huh? Lisa?"

Marge rushed over to her daughter, a look of sleepy surprise on her face. She saw the pistol she held, and she wore a look of great dread.

"Lisa…what's going on?"

Lisa opened her mouth to answer, but before she could speak a shrill scream filled the air. No questions were asked. Homer, roused from his sleep, pulled his rifle out from under his bed, along with Marge's katana, which he passed to her as they dashed after Lisa.

As she flipped on the light, Marge saw a young, brown-haired man tossed from Eric's room and into the wall. A stream of blood trickled from his forehead. It was Brian. A tall, gaunt figure appeared in the doorway. It turned. Its face was white as marble, and, though vaguely human, bore an alien and predatory look upon its face. Seeing the three, the face contorted into a freakish mask, a wrinkled and stretched death mask, with rubies set in its sockets. Lisa fired her pistol. The shots flew wildly, the farthest one striking the floor near Brian's foot. A few hit, striking in the gut and crotch before she ran out of ammo. The fiendish creature howled as it reeled backwards and into the room. They ran to the doorway. The creature, hunched over, its red eyes gleaming, stood at the foot of Eric's bed as another sat on it, apparently binding the boy with ropes as he struggled fruitlessly. A third beast stood by the open window, crouching like a wolf.

Homer let loose a volley from his rifle. The vampire on the bed was set flying. The silver bullets, filled with holy water, exploding inside him. He was ashes before he hit the ground. The wounded one rushed at him, claws extended from the tips of his fingers. He caught him on the cheek, slicing the yellow skin. Dazed, Homer threw a clumsy punch. The vampire, not nearly hit by it, kicked him and threw him sprawling on the floor. Flushed by his victory, did not see the pommel speeding towards his face. Marge drew her katana, the pommel hitting the monster in the nose, and swung downwards. The swing missed, and the thing jumped back. Rushing after it into the room, Marge could swing the sword more freely_. Shwing, shwing_! Only once did the blade make contact, barely slicing the soft skin of the stomach. But the pain, the hot pain and the cold, greased blade, filled the thing with fear. Its mortality, which it once thought dead, now stared him in the face. He turned and leapt out the window, over the head of the third vampire. Seeing the drawn blade and Lisa's reloaded pistol, and the slowly recovering Homer and Brian moving to their feet, the third creature fled.

Maggie came, a baseball bat in hand, a look of grim determination on her face.

"Oh honey!" cried Marge as she rushed over to her. She looked so afraid.

"Mmm-mm-mmm-mrrr!" called Eric from the bed where he was still tied up.

"Oh, sorry boy."

"Daddy," he whimpered softly.

"I suggest we all stay in your bedroom," Brian suggested as he rubbed his bruised forehead, "we can lock the door, hang up a couple'a crucifixes, sprinkle a little holy water…we'll be alright."


	10. A Secret Transmission

_A Secret Report Within the SSIR_

_Several factors have entered the equation that pose a real and serious threat to the success of our operations in Springfield._

_1. C. Montgomery Burns, Vampyr Lord. In a state of false death these past fourteen years, C.M. Burns, has grown in power and currently commands the loyalty of nearly 40 of the town's UnDead, with additional humans and werewolves in his forces as well. His wealth, which has been difficult to locate and diffuse, has grown through interest and careful investments these past fourteen years and is being spent at an alarming rate. _

_Burns has signed a contract with our organization. In exchange for our services,_

_he has promised powerful new technology and exclusive rights to it. The nature of this technology is not yet known._

_While the potential for improvement in our conditions is great, the probability of Burns' success is to low for our full support. Furthermore, his direct interference in our affairs is a destabilizing factor and risks the exposure to non-controls of our activities._

_2. The Springfield Sicilian Mafia. Though no longer in exclusive control of the_

_Springfield underworld, the Mob retains great control over the west side and the ports, and remains well-liked due to the whole "Sopranos" thing. _

_3. Monsignor Patrick O'Flaherty of the Society of Jesus. Former exorcist for the Diocese of Capitol City, as well as the Order of the Knights of St. Michael, a covert organization once used by the Vatican to eliminate vampyr and the UnDead. He was instrumental in the slaying of both Burns and Cordaelia Hoover, and remains at the centre of the plot to destroy Mr. Burns before he can obtain the necessary materials _(see _Simpsons, Maggie and Eric_)_ to resurrect Dracula. Though weakened by age and a recent abortive attempt on his life, Fr. O'Flaherty remains a general danger to our kind. _

_4. Robert Underdunk Terwilliger. A former hitman for the Yakuza, Roberts is a tactical expert and skilled swordsman. Of the motley gathering of conspirators against Burns, Terwilliger is the second greatest threat. Is easily stopped by rakes_

_5. Rev. Michael Malloy. A fellow priest of O'Flaherty, a minimal threat._

_6. Marge Simpson. Mother of the two primary 'materials'. While finite, the strength of the emotional bond between mother and offspring makes her a significant threat._

_7. Brian Callahan; Lisa Simpson. Listed together for three reasons: their co-involvement in the plot to foil Montgomery Burns, their emotional bond, and their shared strength. An unacounted for factor has appeared: the extra intuitiveness, the ability to perceive events, thoughts, or occurrences beyond the normal scope of animate perception. Though far from any form of dreaded prescience, which we suspect Burns possesses though with great limitations, this new variable presents a great stumbling block for our operations and for Burns' plan. They must be watched._

_End Transmission _


	11. Dark Dreams and Omens

Dark Dreams

"What do you want?"

Silence.

"What is it!"

Silence.

"Godammit, answer me!"

Brian Callahan stood in the dark bedroom, staring at the dark bird perched up the bedknob. His fists were clenched, his breathe rose in shudders. Silent it sat. He growled. The mute messenger tilted its head in blithe curiosity.

"Get out! Shoo!" and he struck at it, flailing with visible restraint, merely trying to scare the bird. It flinched, then fluttered to regain its balance and cawed.

"Yaaah!" he screamed, and he tried to grab the hateful creature, to wring its neck and break its wings. It fluttered away and landed on the dresser.

He sunk against the wall, defeated. He sobbed. He held his hands over his hot eyes, boiling with tears.

A flutter. The raven now sat at his feet.

"What am I to do? WHAT AM I TO DO!"

"Brian!"

He looked up. The world was the feint grey of the predawn hours.

"Brian…" it was Lisa. She was looking at him, looking with her simple, affectionate gaze. Her turned his gaze, his fierce, hawklike, piercing look towards her. She knew that his frantic mind never ceased to analyze, to study. She was concerned for him, and still tired, he could see.

"You were dreaming…" she hushed.

"I was…dreaming…"

"A nightmare."

"A nightmare…a nightmare…" he looked at her. His look was soft now, no fierce analytical trance. This was Brian as she had never seen him, frightened and needy.

"You had a nightmare too!"

She nodded.

"A big, black bird…"

Again, she nodded. And she remembered what Mercury had said.

"The crow turns left…"

"Wha-?"

"Nothing," she lied, aware that he could tell when she was hiding something.

The sun rose after a few hours, and slowly and groggily did the others wake. Eric remained asleep, rigid and frightened. Maggie was quiet, and in a mood of deep contemplation.

Wearily, they made their way down the stairs. Brian helped Marge with the breakfast while Lisa called the others and Homer went to talk to Ned.

Halfway through breakfast, Bart, Millhouse, Ned, Nelson, Kearney and Jessica came, looking rushed and ready for a fight. Marge assured them that the crisis had passed, and Nelson set to explaining to his fellow officer Kearney what their situation was.

"And so, quite simply, we're in the middle of a desperate struggle between good and evil," he concluded,

"And I get to shoot people in the head?"

"Yup."

"I'm in."

"Sideshow Bob wants us to go to Professor Frink's later today. He says that he has something to show us."

"Okay, but I'm missing school!" said Lisa.

"So am I," added Brian.

She smiled.

"And Jess' an' I are missing work!" Bart said happily.

"What about the radio station?" Marge asked.

"No worries, mom. I got a replacement.

(We see an iPod plugged into the sound system at the radio station.)

After they breakfasted, the haggard band began preparing for their trip to Professor Frink's. Bart dropped Maggie and Eric off at school, telling them to climb in through the windows and hope no one noticed. Eric went to the office, said that there was a break-in at their house and that they could call his parents to verify if they so wished, and was excused. Maggie, having received a great deal of the Simpson devilry in her heritage, tried, but was caught and received a week's worth of detentions.

Lisa stepped out into the cold morning, her pack over her back. She looked at her parents packing their bags. She heard the scratch and bleep of the radio as Nelson and Kearney radioed in to headquarters, claiming to be escorting a motorcade. Brian walked up beside her. He set his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

"CAW! CAW!" came a quick burst. Slowly, they both turned their heads. A fat, black crow was perched in a nearby tree. The winds had ripped the tattered leaves from its branches, and there sat the ominous bird, in the skeleton tree. It croaked its long, morbid song, and then took flight, flapping its glittering wings. It flew low over the lawn and into the street. It veered left, then out, over the neighbourhood and out of sight.

" 'The crow turns left'" she whispered.

Brian nodded.


	12. The Curious Invention of Professor John ...

The Curious Invention of Professor John Frink

The Professor Frink's laboratory, situated on a hill on the outskirts of the city, was built by the prodigious Professor after he won the Nobel Prize for his stunningly simple invention, the hammer/screwdriver. Part observatory, part chemistry lab, part zoological garden, part greenhouse, and part house-house. The Professor was a true Renaissance man, with multiple degrees, PhD's and doctorates. He dabbled in physics, chemistry, biology, genetics, proteinology, quantum physics, molecular biology, radiology, ecology, geology, astronomy, astrology, electronics, and mechanics. While his experiments were most often ruined by human error, mathematical mistakes or meddling simians, or resulted in terrible explosions, those that were successful yielded great results. The good Professor's high-tech weapons and relative wealth had greatly aided the team of Hunters so far, and, judging from his hinting, he had developed something that would greatly aid their cause.

They arrived by mid-morning, and the air was still fresh and chill. Sideshows Bob and Mel were present, and Bob looked sad and slightly fat without his dark glasses and shiny black duster. Frs. O'Flaherty and Molloy arrived shortly after the main group, the prior having been waylaid by his obligation to say Mass, and the latter by a call to give a dying parishioner the last rights.

"Hey padre," Bart said to Fr. O'Flaherty casually. Bart grudgingly respected the old priest; he was, in fact, as close a thing to a spiritual mentor he had.

"Top 'o the mornin', lad. Sorry, but I had t'say th' mornin' Mass, and old Mrs. Euwens invited me t' breakfast at Jittery Joe's, but I had to decline. God bless 'er."

Fr. Molloy was visibly disturbed.

"Are you alright, Father?" Brian asked in soto voce.

"Yeah…" he lied, and he started up after the others up the steps to the front door.

"You're troubled…numb, burnt out. You had to see a man die."

"I heard his confession. It was heartbreaking. I could almost see it: the slow descent into sin, the minor concession here and there, the mortal sins, the quickening spiral into despair, the hardness of heart from a life of spiritual death…"

"And yet…he made a good confession…He was sincere, and I am sure that God in His Love and Mercy will not deny him Heaven, nor will He look past your suffering and loyal service, good Father."

There was a pensive silence. Brian looked up and ahead and saw Lisa looking at him over her shoulder. He blushed, and it was especially visible in the cold air. Father Molloy didn't see it. He said, without looking at Brian,

"Father O'Flaherty says that you're..." he said, finishing in a barely audible whisper.

Brian suppressed an amused chuckle.

"Are you?"

Brian looked at him, unfocusedly, and raised his eyebrows.

"Can you?"

They were nearing the door. Robert was at the top of the stairs.

"If I try, if I focus, I can sometimes hear snippets. Mostly though, I just go by facial expressions, hand movements, posture, eye movements-little minutiae that betray enough so that I don't need to read minds: they're being told to me."

"But you can hear them, you can see?"

"Images. Mostly images. And, I told you, only when I'm trying, and only sometimes."

"Could you…discover what someone…has confessed to me?" There was genuine fear, and anger, in the young priest's voice; Brian could hear it in the tone, the fraction-of-an-octave jumps.

"Some things-people, places, events, objects-are inaccessible to me. My perception is in no way a function of radiation or brainpower, but a supernatural gift given to me by God. As with any power, it has both limits and inherent responsibilities. One such limit is my inability to read anything a priest has heard within the Sacrament, or any sins one has confessed to a priest."

Brian saw a degree of doubt in the father's eyes, but sensed that he had accepted his answer. Despite his perceptiveness, he did not notice that Lisa was listening intently to their conversation.

They were at the top of the concrete stairs, at the Professor's back door. Robert cleared his throat and rapped on the steel door with his knuckles. The door was opened promptly by Professor Frink's wife, Professor Einid Frink.

"Oh!" she said in her peculiar, nasal voice, "John's been expecting you. Right this way."

The followed her in through the bare, concrete hallway, up a flight of noisy metal stairs, and up to another door. She took out a crowded key ring, and, after some looking, found the correct key. She unlocked the door and led them into the laboratory.

Prof. Frink poked his head up from behind a table.

"Oh, right on time. Einid, thank you, darling."

"Have fun with your secret experiment –thingy," and she headed off into the monkey cages.

"Ladies and gentlepoysons," the professor said as he stood up, then brushed some dust from his labcoat, "If you will please follow me, I will show you my new invention."

He turned and began walking toward another section of the lab, and the group followed him. Lisa caught up to him, and asked,

"What exactly is this-!"

"Ah! No talk! What with the mood, and the drama, and the rush of blood to my head-_oy!-_the excitement, its giddying, _burhey!_"

He led them through a series of locked doors, each with more locks, and each with utilizing more advanced technology. At what Frink assured the increasingly impatient bunch was the last door, there was a corneal scan lock, a voice scan, a finger print lock, a DNA scan, three different codes he had to punch into a keypad, three combination locks, and nine mechanical locks (The keys to six of the locks were hidden under floor paneling, and, once the hidden panel was found and pulled up, the professor had to type in a seven letter code and then spin a combination lock to get the key).

Finally, they entered a dark room that was filled with the humming of thousands of computers. In the centre of the room were what seemed to be several chairs covered with white sheets.

"My friends!" he called out as he walked over to one of the 'chairs', "I have here part of my new plan for UnDead combat! I present to you-" and, with a flourish, he pulled the white cover of one of the objects, revealing what appeared to be a strange, electronic chair, "The Information Jack Chair-patent pending."

There was a befuddled silence.

"Oh, for _glavin_' out loud! These devices plug into the back of the skull and, through a process much too complex for you to understand, takes files stored within a computer and plants them completely and indelibly in the human memory banks. You see, it would takes far too long to teach all of you the complex intricacies of the various forms of hand-to-hand combat, and weapons handling, and first aid, and language, and so forth, and human education often requires repetition and various studying methods for forcing information to stick in the memory. But, within the time it takes to load about six or so CDs onto a computer, I can teach a person an entire language, or, about a third of Okinawan karate. What with the _'ha!'_, and the _'hiyah!'_, and all the mad, mad skills!"

"Wait," said Bart, coming to a sudden realization after the Professor's long plot exposition, "You stole this idea from _The Matr-oof!_" but he was silenced by Prof. Frink's hand slapped across his mouth.

"Uh, yes, well, the Wachowski brothers did, uh, come up with…that idea, but I made it _real_. Like with my lightsabers, I mean, _sure_, Lucas came up with the concept, but you don't see him trying manufacture any and sell them to Nation of Islam!"

"You made lightsabers?" Lisa asked.

"But I digress. I heard how Prof. Callahan here had his _tuckas_ handed to him not once, but twice, by _flurving_. And Officer Muntz, as I understand, was nearly strangulated by a vampire. So I came to the conclusion that we human be-ins aren't meant for mano-a-mano combat with the creatures of the night. That is, _normal humans_. With these machines I can teach you all the best of the various martial arts across the globe, and synthesize them into the ultimate fighting regime, in a matter of hours."

"Aw, hours!" objected Homer.

"I can also teach you various languages, as well as the different dialects within them, as well as psychology, first aid, philosophy, weapon combat techniques, gun maintenance, computer skills, ballet-"

"Heck with that! Plug me in an' load the Kung Fu'!" laughed Bart as he rushed to sit in one of the chairs.

"Oh, not so fast, my young wannabe-Reeves. If you remember from…that film…you need to have the appropriate plug implanted in the back of your head in order for your brain to be able to be 'jacked in', to borrow a "You Know Which Film" term. But, since you're so enthusiastic, you can be first!"

"Gleep."

The process was, to say the least, unpleasant. Prof. Frink would sedate them, and then a medical robot he made would cut a small, circular hole in the back of the skull, and implant the nanobots. In a matter of minutes the industrious robo-creatures would penetrate the brain's protective outer membrane and lay down microscopic wires attached directly to the brain's neurons. The wires lead to the back of the skull, where they joined in to fewer and fewer large numbers until they were six. The nanobots were evacuated, and the medbot installed the components, then sealed then with a quarter-sized plug. The process took less than ten minutes, and Frink had three medbots.

Once they were 'plugged' and the sedatives wore off, the Hunters were lead back to the programming room.

"Well, thankfully, the mobsters aren't here, which is good, because I have just enough chairs as it is, plus, they might be stealing, and snooping, and whatnot. But I babble…"

"Tell me about it," Jessica whispered to Bart.

"Uh-what was that?"

"Nothing!"

"Okay then," he said, pressing a lever that caused all the chairs to recline, "This might tickle!"

The cold metal jacks plugged into the back of their skulls. There was much twitching and groaning.

"Alright, is everyone plugged in?"

"Yes...!" they all answered painedly.

"Splendid! Einid, run the basic programs."

"Righty-o," she said, and she loaded into the main computer several program discs. "Loading…loading…done. Okay, transfer. Hoy, this is exciting."

Lisa felt a surge come up from the cord, and she felt her whole body shake and shudder. Her head flipped back and forth and her eyelids fluttered, while images floated through her mind, so vivid and bright. The images settled, her mind cleared. But she found, with the slightest effort, that they floated back up, completely unchanged by remembering. She remembered an old Chinese saying that each time a memory is recalled, it is slightly changed, so that, eventually, it is no longer the same memory. _But these aren't human memories. This is stored data, like in a computer or CD or cassette._

"Umm…Frinkie, you might want to see this," his wife called.

Frink rushed over to the main controls.

"There," she said, pointing at the screen that showed Homer Simpson's brain functions.

"Full? Why that's impossible! I mean…oh, right, eh-herm. Well, delete all that, and we'll just put in the basic combat program."

After basic first aid procedures came the language programs, which Homer was not included in, of course. French, Spanish, Portuguese, Italian, Flemish, Friesian, Dutch, German, Swedish, Czech, Romanian, Modern Greek, Polish, Russian, Turkish, Modern Hebrew, three different types of Arabic, Swahili, Afrikaans, Pashtun, Bengali, Mandarin, Cantonese, Korean, Japanese, Okinawan, and Malay. For those interested (that is, Mel, Bob, Fr. O'Flaherty, Lisa, and Brian) the professor added Ancient Hebrew, Aramaic, Ancient Greek, Ecclesiastical and Classical Latin, Old French, Old and Middle English, Saxon, Norman, Rhaeto-Romance, Basque, Breton, Manx, Welsh, Gaelic, Scottish Gaelic, Lusitan, Yiddish, Saxon, Albanian, Punjabi, Bengali, Kurdish, Ebo, Bantu, Mongolian, Maori, five major Aboriginal languages, Fijian, Tongan, Inuit, Cree, Cherokee, Shawnee, Iroquois, Adobe, Crow, Arapaho, Algonquin, and Esperanto.

After languages came basic 'covert' techniques: vehicle-jacking, hotwiring, lock-picking, guard-bribing, dog-tricking, fence-climbing, quiet walking, and computer hacking. Then came advanced automobile skills, such as jumps and bootleg turns, as well as motorcycle riding, aircraft piloting, and how to prepare and sail various types of watercraft.

"And now, what you've all been waiting for: the martial arts!"

"Woohoo!"

"Boo-yah!" cheered Millhouse. Nelson leaned over and punched him in the gut.

"That interjection went out of style in '99!"

"So, let's start with gun safety and cleaning…" Frink said, loading in a disk, "Shooting, sniping, rapid-fire weapons, gun repair…and bayonet and close-quarters combat. And…load."

This time, Homer was receiving the data. He twitched and jerked and babbled.

"Whoa…more!" he growled.

"Okay…disarming, knife safety and maintenance, knife fighting 1 and 2, knife throwing, and fighting against multiple opponents."

The data was copied into the computer's files, then transferred straight to their brains.

"More!"

"Rapier fencing1 and 2, saber fencing1 and 2, epee, parts 1 and two!"

"More!"

"One handed short sword one and two, one handed short sword plus shield, one handed broadsword one and two, plus shield expansion pack."

"More!"

"Two-handed longsword!"

"More!"

"Claymore and gladius!"

"Katana, parts one to three, one wazikashi, double wazikashi, wazikashi plus shield!"

"More!"

"Halberd, battle axe, partisan, trident and spear!"

"MORE-OWW! I have a headache! My mind's buzzing…" Homer whined.

"Hmm…Mr. Simpson, it appears that your brain is full. Any further information could possibly result in the loss of vital information."

Homer stared at him blankly.

"Breathe, Homie."

"Oh, right," he replied, snapping out of his torpor.

"How about you go play with the monkeys? They need some exercise."

"Woo! Monkeys!" he screamed giddily, and he ran off with the plug still in the back of his skull. Eventually it snapped, and he fell over, apparently having some sort of fit. He came to, pulled out the jack, then ran off, giggling and sporadically saying "Monkeys!"

"Well, then, lets start with the Kung-Fu."

And they did. Every useful martial art was loaded in, one at a time. Every move, every combination, every strike, every counter, and each and every doctrine and regime was ingrained in their grey matter. They were taught, or, rather, programmed with Kung-Fu San Soo, Shaolin Kung-Fu, Wudan Kung-Fu, and the dreaded Kung-Fu Soccer. Then came Okinawan Karate, Mainland Karate, Judo, Jiu-Jitsus, Tai Chi, Siamese kickboxing, sumo, Israeli martial arts, boxing, drunken brawling, capoeria, and aggressive funk-dancing.

By noon, they were all very tired, and a bit peckish. Mrs. Professor Frink told the robo-cooks to start making lunch for sixteen, while her husband showed them around their labs.

"You see, this whole deal with the vampires-ez is most perplexing to a men of science, which both my wife and I are."

Bart, Lisa, Brian, and Jessica exchanged puzzled looks.

"They are a bundle of contradictions. While they are physical, they are also, as far as I can tell, animated by a supernatural force. Their cells are dead, yet do not decay and are not eaten by maggots, bacteria, mold, or the larger carrion-eating scavenging animals. They ingest blood, but it the blood is not digested, but is absorbed into their bloodstream, which, though cold and necrotic, neither congeals nor decays. It's a puzzlement, _da-hoo_."

He showed them an operation table were a disabled, comatose vampire lay dissected.

"With it's heart removed, and the arteries and connections are charred by contact with a consecrated substance to prevent regeneration, and, the connection of the heart treated, the creature remains completely inactive. If blood contacts the blood vessels of either, however, regeneration may occur. By cutting off the head, however, and singing the wounds, regeneration can not occur anywhere, and, if it remains in such a state for more than a few days, regeneration becomes impossible, and the body assumes a natural state of decomposition."

"What of holy water, professor? Have you investigated its exact effects?"

"Why yes, in fact, I have." He turned to a nearby jar, a jar that appeared to be filled with a sickly green solution, in which floated a chunk of human, vampire flesh. He donned a pair of latex gloves and, with a pair of tongs, picked up the blob of tissue and carried it over to a nearby meat shaver. He shaved off one thin slice of the flesh, then placed the main chunk back in the jar. He took the shaved slice and placed it on a Petri dish. He then took a large jar of holy water, and poured it over the meat slicer. There was a slight hiss and a puff of steam. He then filled a cup with the holy water, then placed the tongs in it. The cup filled to the brim with froth, and a thick cloud of steam rose up.

The professor took a scalpel and uses it to cut a thin slice of the flesh, which he then placed on a microscope slide. He measured out just the slightest amount of holy water into a cylinder. He turned around to face the others, who had been watching him with a deal of curiosity and confusion as he worked. He raised a single finger on his free hand, then, stepping to the side so the rest could see what he was about to do. He poured the holy water onto the larger slice. There was much crackling and hissing, and steam rose in thick, gray clouds. Bright blue flames appeared, causing the glass dish to deform and melt. Then, it all stopped. Only the blackened, distorted dish remained.

"I used the minimum amount of holy water to dissolve the piece of flesh. As you saw, it took very little to do so completely. In mathematical terms, the amount of Vampyr flesh that an amount of holy water will destroy, is two times the volume squared. A single drop will dissolve a piece of flesh down to the bone. Ah! And the bone! It is a direct volume-volume ratio for bone. All other tissues follow the 2_V_² equation."

Marge looked to Lisa.

"Did you get that? You understood what he's saying-it makes sense, right?"

"Yes, mom."

"Now, I will place this slide on the microscope…dim the lights…projection, on!"

The lights dimmed, and the microscope's projector showed the dead, motionless cells of the vampire. The delicate, internal components, the mitochondria, the ribosomes, the nucleus, and the Golgi complex sat still, like abandoned machines in a factory.

Professor Frink took a syringe, filled it with holy water, and placed a single drop on the slide. The cells on the projector exploded, as did their real counterparts. Frink went over to inspect the damage to his expensive device.

"Ah, darn it! Cracked the lens. Oh well, all for science. Five hundred dollars…plus repair…all for…science…Oh hell, anyhoo, I'll replay what happened, slow, this time."

"You see, once in contact with the holy water, the cells' connective molecules are dissolved, causing the cell to float away from the others. As this occurs, the cell swells with the holy water. The inner structures dissolve down to the atomic level, and form mostly water and carbon dioxide. This rapid destructurization, when occurring en masse, causes those mysterious blue flames, what with the energy of the molecular bonds being released. The cell membrane brakes due to the internal pressure, and its molecules are then broken down and turned into water and carbon dioxide, leaving the trace minerals still dissolved in the water. The only reason the process burns up any water, hence the ratio, is because the heat the reaction generates causes evaporation. The cellular water and the water reclaimed from the chemical decomposition slow the process down."

"Hmmm…" they all murmured, setting their hands on their chins in contemplation.

"Oh, and the effect that holy water has on blood is also quite ponderous. You see, I thought that the ration would hold for blood, but I found that if you were to pour a gallon of vampiric blood into a gallon of holy water, after the reaction finishes, you are left with a gallon of water. If you then pour a gallon of vampiric blood into the leftover water, you end up with one gallon. And, as far as I can tell, it goes on indefinitely."

"So, what does it mean?"

"Blood, for once, isn't thicker than water."

"Oooh…"

A bell was chimed.

"Oh goody, the sandwhiches! _Burhey!_"

After a simple lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches washed down with milk, their host showed them another invention.

"These ultra-thin needles are inserted into the muscles, like so, and the little electric jolts cause muscular contractions and relaxation. When supplemented with daily exercise, a diet high in protein, my muscle fiber repairing nanobots, and the occasional use of low doses of steroids, the result is a buff bod in a matter of days."

"Hmmmm…I don't want anyone using steroids. Its illegal, not to mention it's unsafe. My body is still messed up from my strangely-out-of-character steroid abuse."

"Your abuse of anabolic steroids wasn't out of character. You're an insecure neurotic with who grew up in an unhappy home and have a history of poorly handling it when your perceptions are defied. When you were attacked and robbed, your only natural behavior was to go into seclusion. Once you were strong enough to beat up your attacker, which you did, your strength became your only protection."

"Furthermore, you have a long history of addiction and illicit behavior. You've been an alcoholic, a compulsive gambler, and somewhat of a risk-taker."

After Lisa finished, Marge glowered at her and said, "I don't like you analyzing me in front of other people."


	13. Preparation

Preparation

(Theme from _Rocky_ plays)

(A few scenes to show the group getting in shape. Bart jogging. Marge and Homer lifting weights. Lisa jogging effortlessly on treadmill, while Brian struggles to keep up. Nelson at shooting range, unloading clip of his pistol into a target. Close-up of target, with all shots in center. Frink using vacuum to suck excess fat out of Homer. Whole group on tables, with muscle stimulaters in. Group at Akira's dojo, practicing Shan-Shin, Akira counting ("Ich, Ni, Shan, Shi, Go, Ruk, Sich, Hach!"). Millhouse trying to stretch elastic exercise bands; succeeds once, but the band snaps and hits him in the eye. Jessica and Bart, silhouetted against the rising sun, practicing Tai Chi. Robert and Mel practicing fencing. Fr. Malloy, by his bed, stretching and doing push-ups and sit-ups. Group, jogging. Fr. O'Flaherty practicing his archery, slowly but steadily drawing back the arrow, then firing. We see Lisa meditating, rising up and down, then see that she is sitting on Bart's back while he does push-ups, while Eric keeps count. Homer punching small punching bag rapidly, Marge enters, he turns and waves, bag hits him in head repeatedly ("D'oh-D'oh-d'oh-d'oh-d'oh!"). Shadows, unidentified, katana fencing. Final seen with group running, Brian and Lisa pulling ahead, both rushing stairs of courthouse, and Brian beating her to the top. Victorious jumping up and down for final "Duh-duh-DUH!").


	14. A Threat, and A Day With Brian Callahan

A Day With Brian Callahan

"WELL ITS SEVEN O"CLOCK, A BE-YOOTIFUL MORNING."

"THIS IS KBBL. WITH MAC MANAGING THE MUSIC. KATIE AND JOE SCREENING THE CALLS, JESSICA, AND OF COURSE, ME, THE BARTMAN."

"ITS FRIDAY, AND THAT MEANS OPEN-LINE DAY! FIRST CALLER, GO!"

There was an ominous silence. A slight breathing was heard.

"HELLO?" Jessica asked.

"Hello…" came the deep, raspy voice, "………"

"YES? Hello!" Jessica said.

"This is for you, Jessica Lovejoy, and Bart…and for all the rest. We know who you are…where you work…where you sleep…"

"DO YOU HAVE A SONG OR NOT?" Bart asked impatiently.

"We will kill you tonight. Despite your best efforts, no matter where you hide, where you go…we'll hunt you down and taste your blood! There is no escape...Oh, and I'd like you to play Twisted Sister's "Burn In Hell"…tonight you die!"

Bart, painfully oblivious, hit the play button and sat there humming along. Jessica, who had been paralyzed with terror for the better part of the call, came to her senses, stood up, grabbed Bart by the shirt collar, and drug him out of the room.

"Man!" Mac said, "That Jessica's a wild one! Cat hiss !"

"Bart! That was one of Burn's men! They're on to us!"

"Jess, chill…"

"That gravely-voiced goon just said that an uber-powerful UnDead monster knows where we live and is coming to kill us, and you just sit their like a lump of-!"

"JESSICA! Calm-eth, thy self-eth, chick-eth. I'll call up Sideshow Bob, we'll have an emergency meeting tonight, we'll trace their call next time they phone in-its all good! Bob said Alucard should be back soon, and he'll probably have already found out where Burns' lair is and it will all be over before he can cause the Apocalypse."

Jessica was frightened and angry. _Her face always looks so ugly when she's like that_, Bart thought.

"_I don't trust Alucard._ And I certainly don't trust Sideshow Bob. He's a freak! He tried to kill you, at least seven times!"

"I don't trust them either. But they don't trust us either. No one trusts anyone these days. But they act like they trust some people-because we're desperate."

"Wow. That's really deep…kinda pretty…you didn't make it up yourself, didn't you?"

"Movie poster," he answered curtly. She nodded, then smiled. They both went back into the studio room.

"Burn In Hell" was just finishing. The annoyingly loud theme for the station played, and then they were back on the air.

"OKAY, WE'RE BACK! NEXT CALL, AND PLEASE, NO MORE DEATH THREATS. HELLO?"

"Yes, hello," the baritone voice intoned.

"AHHH!" Bart screamed, recognizing his former arch-nemesis' voice.

"Bart, _you_ _and Jessica are _doing a fantastic job. Truly, you are the best disk jockeys _in_ town. Could you please play '_Danger_'?"

"UMM, I DON'T HAVE A SONG LIKE THAT ON OUR LIST," Bart answered. Jessica sat, her hands palms-up on her lap, noting the keywords Bob accentuated. _You, and, Jessica, are, in, danger…You and Jessica are in danger!_

"Really? Well then, could you play 'Under Pressure'?"

"SURE THING."

"Thank you Bart. Again, let me say how splendid I think you and your co-host are, and that I should like to _meet_ you. I just got a page from my brother _at_ home. I need to get _back _to the _house_. Le _back house_."

"OK, LATER," Bart said impatiently, and he gave Mac the signal to hang up.

The opening bass notes played, those famous notes the now much-loathed Vanilla Ice stole so long ago. Jessica sat with her hands in her lap, rubbing her index finger and thumb together and biting her bottom lip. Bob had been more discrete with the words this time; his accents were slighter, his words fewer, not even forming a complete sentence. _Meet, at back house…_Le _back house…_

"Man can that dude talk your ear off!" Bart said, rustling some papers.

"'You and Jessica are in danger. Meet at…back house'" she repeated, pausing on the incomprehensible last words.

"What?"

"Bart, Sideshow Bob heard that creepy call, and he hid a message in his seemingly-inane conversation…'Back house'…what did he mean by that, though?"

"Back house…back house…" Bart said, his mind racing. He had found straight thinking difficult in the last few days, partly because his brain was not used to such, and also because his mind was now crammed with all sorts of information he could never have gotten into it normally. _Le…_the word, which he hadn't even registered when he was listening to Robert's call, triggered a chain of subconscious thought. _Le…French, definite singular article…French…'back house', in French…le maison derriere…he wants to meet us-where though?_

"Bob wants to meet us at the Maison Derriere!" Bart gasped.

"Wha-of course! That's where we always meet! How'd you-back house! Oh, I'm an idiot! I always think of the 'derriere' as in 'ass'."

Bart's eyes widened in a sudden destruction of lingering innocence.

"Hey! The place's name is a double entendre!"

"You didn't realize that before?"

_Springfield University…_

"And in blah blah blah blah blah the Aztec emperor blah blah blah-blah blah the Olmec empire, ruled by blah blah-blah-blah blah blah…" droned the Native American History teacher. Lisa sat in the front row, struggling to stay awake. She had long given up even trying to pay attention; she was now struggling just to _look_ like she was paying attention.

_Buddha!_ She thought, _Why am I here? I'm falling asleep! Wake up! Wake up-wake up! God! I wish that Senora Finell was still teaching. Dropping out first week of the year, what a gyp…oh, that's an ethnic slur against the Roma. What a…bad…thing…for me. I guess she's in her rights to quit teaching…I mean, if she's having a baby…jeez, I hope I'm never pregnant. Mom seemed so uncomfortable when she was pregnant with Eric…she was far too old, far too stressed. At least she didn't have a career. Ms. Finell said she wasn't coming back. Well, if I ever have a child, I sure as hell won't let it ruin my career. But they do say that having a baby changes everything about how you view things, changes everything. But it's possible that's a cultural control, emphasized by the new emotional/psychological state induced by the hormones and added to by the culturally-imposed responsibility of child raising. Still…I guess I won't know for sure until I do have a child…Look at me! I'm twenty-two, a junior, triple-majoring in physics, ecology, and biology, and here I am, thinking of motherhood! _

The bell rang. Lisa pulled her head up from the desk. _I fell asleep? Crap!_ She looked at the professor, who turned and shot her a disappointed look, then went back to erasing the board. She gathered her things and hurried out the room.

As she walked across the quad, she felt a hand on her shoulder. With her new reflexes, she spun about, fists ready. Brian Callahan stood behind her, a surprised look upon his countenance. She smiled.

"You dropped your books, Lisa."

She looked down. She saw how he was standing, one foot ahead of the other, his muscles in _prana bindu_ tension, coiled springs of tension. The look of surprise on his face belied the unconscious preparedness his new 'programming' had bestowed upon him. She felt eyes upon her, her fellow students surprised to see Lisa the pacifist/Buddhist/feminist/environmentalist/Green Party member, ready to slug a teacher. She relaxed and bent over to pick up her books. She gathered them in her arms in front of her. Brian handed her one.

"Thank you."

"_C'est rien_."

She reached for the last one. Her hand and Brian's met upon its cover. Their eyes flicked up at each other. Brian was surprised by her forwardness as raised her hand over his and clasped it. He flicked his eyes back to hers. She was smiling coyly. He knew to return the smile, and did so with all expediency, lest she think him reluctant, or merely smiling after the decision to do so in order to not embarrass her. But he knew the other students to be watching them. He changed his expression, and flicked his eyes twice towards the others. She withdrew. He grinned and handed her book. They both stood.

"So," she said, her books in front of her chest, rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet in a deliberate mock-shyness, "What's going on?" Her voice cracked slightly. She new how to play the 'game', but didn't quite do it well, partly because her political advocacy had alienated most of the local boys, and her insistence on intellectual equality excluded most of the students at a school the College Board had deemed 'The Underachiever's Best Hope'.

She could tell it was bad news before he spoke. The corners of his mouth turned down, and his eyes assumed their hawk-like, piercing stare.

"I received an e-mail from our mutual acquaintance, Robert Underdunk Terwilliger, saying that he heard Bart and Jessica receive a threatening telephone call at their workplace, presumably from one of Burns' goons."

She suppressed a gasp. "Where does he want us to meet him?"

He was pleased by her directness. "The burlesque house, at seven thirty tonight. He also wants you to stay with me. He says that it's…a liability for anyone to be alone. Of course, your mother and father are together with Mr. Flanders, Bart and Jessica are with each other…"

"Are Maggie and Eric safe?"

He was caught in his ramblings, which, he realized, contained the subconscious hinting that they should be together. _Hardly subtle, she certainly caught me_. _And I wasn't even thinking it…_

"They've been moved to an undisclosed location. He didn't say where, only that they are safe."

"Okay."

"We should probably leave the campus."

"Why? I have class!"

"First off, we can hardly protect each other if we are working, in separate classrooms, and we can hardly be on campus, hanging about, without people asking what we are doing. Also…" his voice lowered to an intense whisper, "I was looking for an original Saxon copy of _Beowulf_ in the basement when I encountered several caskets…inside of each was a vampire…it was less than an hour until sundown, and I hadn't enough stakes to them all…going back to the house would've taken too long, even going to Frink's or your place for more would have cut it too close; they could've grabbed me while I was staking them, and that would be the end of me. I staked five, but there were about twenty of them, some were pretty old, pre-European Indians, some of them…"

They were walking now, slowly, deliberately. He had her by the sleeve of her sweater, and looked about suspiciously as he continued.

"I barely made it home that night…and all night long, I heard the others, scratching the window panes, howling like the Devil himself…by dawn, they were gone, and nearly all of my chickens slaughtered and the horses loose in the pasture, frightened half to death."

They were walking faster now, looking about madly, heads so close they were almost cheek to cheek.

"They followed you?"

"Yes."

"How'd they find out?"

"Vampyr are only partially aware when they are asleep, but they probably sensed someone moving about in their hiding place. When they woke, they followed my smell to my room, most likely, found out who I was, and where I lived, and raced to stop me. That's the most likely scenario…"

His tone as he finished, the way he trailed off, indicated his belief in another, less likely, and much worse explanation. They both thought it. Brian especially, having been told by Sideshow Bob 'They know our meeting place, they said…Belle never invites anyone suspicious in, and I checked the last few weeks' security tapes…nothing unusual, no invisible persons walking in the door, no seats with no one in them…'

'What of Burns'…sight?'

'Father says he can not see into a room that has the Blessed Sacrament in it…and he said that he stores a Consecrated Host in our meeting room…and the rosary…interferes with his visions, shall we say…So the only logical conclusion is…'

_Yes…the most horrible of conclusions!_

'Is the Maison safe for our meeting?"

'I called Belle. She said she's put a crucifix in sight of the main door and on the doors to our room, and she's hired some extra muscle. For tonight, we'll be safe. I hope.'

She followed him back to his office, where he set about to collecting all his things. His papers for the class he crammed inside his battered leather briefcase, while his weapons and assorted instruments he placed in a heavy carpet bag.

"You have plenty of stakes with you now…couldn't you…" she began, stopping when the she saw the obvious answer.

"Yes," he said, seeing her sudden realization, "I arrived the next morning, with stakes and enough holy water to baptize China, but they were gone. They're very crafty the UnDead. They are like animals, you see-their individual survival is all they think of. That makes them difficult to exterminate, but has also kept their race in the shadows for so long."

"Our altruism is what makes us great; it makes no evolutionary sense, but that's why it works."

"Yes. And it makes Burns a threat: normally, Vampyr are solitary hunters, working in groups only because of familial or 'blood' ties, and only when the pressures of finding food and avoiding Hunters does not force them into every-man-for-himself-ishness. Burns has rallied nearly all the UnDead under his banner, and they are now obedient to him."

"But how could he make them fight for him, like a few nights ago, when such puts them at risk of death with no visible benefit to themselves?"

"Burns is powerful. The Vampyr cling to power. They hunger for it. So, hoping to benefit from his power, and fearing what he could do to them if they resisted, they must have made a pact of blood with him, binding their fate to his."

A thought came to her.

"And…if they drank his blood, then that would enable them to enter houses he had entered?"

"Certo."

"Is their will then his?"

"No, but, if they entered the pact, and failed to fulfill their side of the bargain, then Burns…we don't know what he could do."

"Is it true that some of the vampires worship him?"

Brian looked down, his eyes glazed in thought. A slight smile curled his lips.

"They see him as their messiah, the one who will bring about the return of the Vampire King, Dracula, whose they believe will usher in an era in which the UnDead shall rule the living and the Church and all who can oppose the Vampyr will be destroyed. But no, the Vampyr worship no one and nothing but themselves. They see Satan, by whose power they continue to live, as someone they duped, and pay homage only to the gods of their own wills and liberated animal passions."

Lisa listened to his words. He had mentioned 'paying homage to the god of the will' earlier in the year when he had railed against the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche.

She followed him out to the parking lot.

"Where's you carriage?"

"I didn't bring it today. I brought my motorcycle," he said as he gestured towards a large, black motorbike.

She analyzed it as he donned his helmet and started up the bike's engine.

"There…there's no side car."

"You don't mind, do you? I mean, hanging on back…?"

"Oh, no, not all," she said, her voice cracking in her nervous excitement. She threw in a small, nervous laugh. He tossed her a helmet. She fumbled, caught it, and, feeling quite awkward, she put it on.

She looked at the seat of the bike. It was longer than normal, easily allowing a passenger, but with no backrest or support, she would have to cling on to his back. Lisa looked for some time, trying furtively to get on. She felt alien and uncomfortable. _Stupid hormones! Look at me, I'm acting a total ditz!_

"Just throw one leg over. Its easy," he told her. He did not see why she was having such trouble.

Lisa picked up her right leg and flung it over the bike. It rocked slightly, but Brian held it up with his feet. Sitting down, she set her hands on his shoulders, feeling strange, right up against him.

"You might want to wrap your arms around my waist," he said.

"What?"

"Around my waist."

"Oh…sure…heh heh heh…" she breathed nervously.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt…safe. Secure. Loved. The brief revelation was shattered by the roar of the engines and the sudden jolt from the acceleration.

"Yaaaaaaah!" she screamed as the shot out of the parking lot. They roared down the street, the wind blasting past them. Lisa clung on for dear life, her eyes squeezed shut. Her heart was pounding, and felt like it nearly exploded each time the brakes screeched and they lurched forward. She smelt the acrid smell of burnt rubber, and thought they would fall over and die each time they hit a bump or pothole. She felt the bike sway back and forth. She opened her eyes. They were whizzing down pothole-ridden Main Street. It was a veritable obstacle course.

After several perilous blocks, they turned left and headed out of town. She watched as the crowded blocks became suburban housing developments. The houses grew fewer, larger, more widely dispersed. They crossed over a bridge, and were outside the city limits.

The houses were fewer, older. With greater frequency, she saw houses with chickens, turkeys, goats, and horses. Horses! Lisa thought of how much she once loved horses, how she still loved them. _Oh! How I wish that one was mine! _she thought as saw a beautiful gray mare with a small foal.

The ranch houses and farms morphed into large groves of oranges and grapevines. Soon, they were surrounded by orange trees on each side, and Lisa felt somewhat trapped. The road slowly arched westward, and soon, the mid-morning sun was at their backs. Lisa smelt the sharp brine of the ocean. The groves fell back, and she saw the grey sea, boiling and churning majestically. Her heart was gladdened by the sight of it. She wondered what it was, that dream men towards the sea. The promise of new discovery? The independence of the voyage? The hardships of sailing? Or perhaps, something deep within the soul, a longing, a need? She stared at it as long as she could. Finally, she lost sight of it as the road turned away.

She looked ahead, and saw a beautiful Victorian manor house on a nearby hill. Painted a sea grey, and surrounded by a tall iron fence, with tall, barren trees in front of it, it had every appearance of a haunted house.

They pulled up in front of the house. Brian turned off the motor and took off his helmet. He set the kickstand into the gravel and dismounted the bike. Lisa pulled off her helmet and looked about. The house was isolated, surrounded by forest, untended orange groves, and the sea. Springfield was merely a smoggy blob in the distance. Completely cut off from the world…what a fitting home for the strange, eccentric young professor.

He took out a large iron key and unlocked the heavy, rusted lock on the gates. He pushed one open, and it creaked eerily.

"Bloody salt water," he said, inspecting the hinges, "Everything rusts like mad."

Lisa looked at the massive house.

"How do you afford this place? The rent must be ridiculous!"

"Actually, that's the funny thing: I practically got it for free! The realitor said that I was crazy to buy it, that it was haunted! Well, I moved in, all this crazy stuff started happening, you know, writing appearing on the wall, weird apparitions, noises late at night, my bed was shaking, I was scared out of my wits. I called Fr. O'Flaherty, and he inspected the premises, and said that it was infested."

"With what?" she asked as she slid off the bike.

He turned and looked at her, a wild look in his eyes.

"Evil!"

Lisa was part frightened, part dubious. Recent events had caused her to cease to be a total skeptic of all paranormal activity, but her rational mind still refused to take everything abnormal at face-value.

Brian took the bike and started to walk up the gravel driveway with it. She followed.

"You see, Miss Simpson, demons can inhabit objects, as well as living creatures. The father blessed the houses, said the prayer of exorcism several times, at least once in each room, and even said Mass in the house. After a few months, it all subsided. He repeated the ritual a few more times, and blessed the house as a whole, and then every room. I put a blessed crucifix in each room, and every month he comes to say mass in a different room. So far, there have been no more incidents."

"Why didn't you just move out?" she asked as he put the bike in the garage.

"Well, I mean, look at the place! Its gorgeous! Plus, where could I live on a professor's salary? An apartment? Where would I keep all my horses, my chickens?"

"Chickens?"

"Sure, I need the eggs. I could never eat one of those store-bought eggs! Do you know the conditions those chickens live in? Seven to a cage, never seeing the light of day!"

Lisa smiled and shook her head.

"And yet you ate steak on our date."

"Hey, that was USDA certified grade A organic, raised in the rolling green hills. Those cows have it made…until they're slaughtered. But still, in all honesty, meat is a luxury for me. In all practicality, I am a vegetarian. I just object to people saying that the soul of an animal is of equal value as the soul of a human being."

"So animals do have souls!" she laughed, feeling as though she had gotten him to admit something.

"Sure, but you see, they aren't of the same value as that of a man or woman. Walk with me." And he walked out of the garage, and she followed him. The manor was on a fairly large parcel of land, mostly rolling hills by the sea. As they walked, Brian lectured her.

"Life, Lisa, is more than what science calls it: a continuous, self-maintaining, self-duplicating chemical reaction. Life is spirit, it is soul, it is, ultimately, a supernatural phenomena. Life is a gift of God. He created it, sustains it, and only allows it to end, only allows death, because it is one of the penalties for Original Sin, through which evil entered His Perfect Creation by our own fault. Life is the present of the animus, the soul, in a thing. The higher the creature, the greater the soul. The soul of a fly is greater than that of an amoeba, but less than that of a horse. Truly, animals do have souls."

At that, they encountered a large, white cat.

"Hello, Fluffy," he sang as he picked it up and nuzzled its thick, fluffy fur. "See, Miss Simpson, how could this thing be without a soul, how could there be no spirit behind those beautiful green eyes?" He held the cat out her, and she took it into her arms. She stroked its soft coat, and felt its strong, forceful purr. She smiled, cradled it in her arms for a while, then set him down.

"The soul of an animal is mortal. When _it _dies, the animal dies, and when the animal dies, the soul ceases to exist."

"That's horrible!" Lisa gasped.

"Yes, but its not the way its meant to be. Death was not what God intended for His Creation, though He certainly foresaw a future in which it would become a reality. In Eden, there was no time, no disease, no pain, no discomfort, and no death. Only through the sins of Adam and Eve did evil enter not only the human creature, but also into all creation, for human beings were made the caretakers and preservers of Creation."

They were now outside the chicken coop. Fat, contented hens were strutting about, some with small chicks, clucking and scratching at the dirt. Brian picked one up, and Lisa was amazed to see that the chicken he caught had no feathers on its neck.

"Oh, the poor thing!" she gasped.

"It's alright, it's a turken," he explained.

"Wha-!"

"It's an eastern European breed that has no feathers on its neck. They're very friendly little birds. Look, you can pick 'em up, just like that!"

"Hmmm…"

He set the chicken down, and it went back to its happy foraging. They watched the birds strut and peck about for a while, telling the occasional chicken joke. He asked Lisa if she was hungry, and she said that she was. As it was lunchtime, they decided to go back to the house. They went in through the back door, and stepped directly inside the kitchen.

The kitchen was clean, if somewhat poorly-lit, and smelt strongly of garlic.

"How about I make my famous Spaghetti con Broccoli? It's delicious, my mum used to make it all the time."

"It's vegetarian, right?"

"Couldn't be any more vegetarian if it tried. It's so vegetarian, its repel meat like magnet."

"Okay. Sounds good."

"Right then, you just go rest and I'll start cooking."

"Alright."

Lisa left the kitchen and walked about the dilapidated manor. It seemed more like an abandoned home that had been moved in to, rather than a home that was sold. The gossamer, moth-eaten curtains trailed like ghosts in the feint drafts. The rugs were torn and heavy with dust, and every other floorboard unleashed a heart-rendering creak. She looked about. She was now in the main foyer. A cobweb-enshrouded chandelier hung high about her head. She looked up, around, at the arching double-stairway, then down, to the room underneath it. She walked over to the double doors, and opened one a sliver. As she suspected, they contained a large ballroom. The curtains were all drawn tightly, and dust lay thick on the floor.

She wndered through the house for a while before coming to a door with gold letters inscribed above the frame.

"_Archives_"

She tried the door. It was unlocked. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder, then went in.

The 'Achives' room was actually a large library. Lisa was thrilled at the idea. _ Oh, to have so many books, all nice and neat on fancy shelves and-ooh! One of those roly-ladder thingies! I always wanted one of those!_

Lisa looked and saw a computer on a nearby desk. The monitor was on, but in standby. She touched a key, and the screen lit up.

_Wow, he has a cataloguing system._

The program had various search modes: 'Search by Title', 'Search by Author', 'Search by Publisher', 'Search by Era', 'Search by Genre', 'Search by Theme', and 'Search by Catalogue Number'.

"Hmm…I'll try 'Genre'."

'Which Genre?' the program prompted, and it listed 'Fiction' and Nonfiction'.

"I'll try 'Nonfiction'."

The computer listed all the nonfiction genres: Art, History, Martial Arts, Military, Practical, Religious/Philosophical, Scientific, and Zoological.

"Let's see what the professor has under 'Religious/Philosophical'," Lisa mused as she clicked. A whole list of authors, with all their works, came up.

_I recognize a lot of these names…Pythagoras, Aristotle, Socrates, Plato, Aquinas, Augustine, Nietzche, Freud, Randt...some of these are weird, though. Serge Trifkovic…must be some right-wing propaganda writer he reads…look at his books! "The Sword of The Prophet: The Politically Incorrect History of Islam". Pah! Let's see…Father Alfonso Liguouri...'The Deciever: Our Daily Struggle With Satan"…M-268…_

Lisa followed the long walls of books until she reached the 'M' section. She continued along until she saw the book by Fr. Alfonso. She pulled it out, and looked it over. On the cover was a picture of 'The Temptation of Christ' by Botticelli. She opened it up, its tired, broken-down bindings creaking faintly, and skimmed over it. She found the pages smudged and dog-eared, indicating frequent use. _He reads this one a lot…maybe even recently…_

A key sentence caught her attention, one that spoke of how the Christian theology was incomplete without an understanding of angels and demons and the cause of Satan's fall. She began reading seriously, but, seeing it would only be more work to start anywhere else, she flipped back to the beginning. She started on the preface, feeling that, even though they _were_ boring and often repeated what had been said already on the back cover's summary, that if someone had taken the time to write it, that she should have the courtesy to read it.

As she read, trying to comprehend the talk of demons and angels and the Divine Plan for the Salvation of Humanity, Brian's voice came to the edge of her consciousness.

"Miss Simpson…Miss Simpson…"

Unable to put the book down, her mind whirring a mile a minute, she ignored and kept reading, though knowing she would have to stop sometime very soon.

"Miss Simpson…Miss Simpson? LISA!"

She looked up, snapping the book shut. She through a quick look over her shoulder, then ran out of the room, still clutching the book.

"I'm coming!" she called as she left the room.

"Lunch is ready!" he yelled back.

Professor Callahan had set the table in the dinning room with one setting on each end of the table. Lisa blinked as she entered, as he had drawn up the curtains and the room was now brilliantly white. Brian entered holding a large, steaming bowl filled with a mixture of pasta, egg, and broccoli. The smell was quite enticing to Lisa, who suddenly realized how hungry she was.

"Hold on while I get us some drinks," Brian asked as he set down the hot bowl, "San Peligrino alright?"

"Oh, sure!"

He smiled and nodded, then looked down and saw that he was still wearing a pink-frilled apron and oven mitts shaped like duck heads. Grinning embarrassedly, he ripped them off and stormed off into the kitchen. He came back with two large bottles of Peligrino mineral water and a pair of serving tongs. He set one bottle in front of Lisa first, then on next to his glass. He opened the bottle for her, and poured some into her glass.

"Oh, thank you."

"De nada."

He scooped up a rather large helping of noodles for her, and placed it on her plate.

"There you are, tuck in."

"Thanks."

He walked around to the other side of the table, sat down, and crossed himself. He felt Lisa staring at him as he said grace, but continued as though he didn't notice. He made the Sign of the Cross, then served himself some pasta.

"So, Miss Simpson, are you enjoying your stay?" he asked as he poured himself a glass of 'fizzy water'.

"Yes, your house is really nice."

He nodded, swallowed a mouthful, then said, "How'd you like my library?"

She nearly dropped her spoon.

"How'd you know I was in there? Do you have surveillance cameras?"

"No, I just know it, and your reaction and thinly-veiled surprise proves it. It's alright. And feel free to borrow that book for as long as you need to. Its one of my favorites-shaped the way I view the world!"

"Well, I haven't read a lot of it yet, but it's…interesting, different. I'm not sure I'll agree with all of it."

"That's the thing!" he interjected with a loud gesture. "How can you doubt, when you've seen what we've all seen! Holy water dissolving vampire flesh, creatures rising from the grave, Alucard-appearing and reappearing at will! How can you doubt!"

"I…just don't agree with a lot of Christianity's doctrines. I'm sorry, professor, I know you're a very conservative–"

"_Orthodox_."

"-_orthodox_ Catholic, but it's just what I believe."

He looked at her for a while, eyebrows slightly raised.

"You're entirely in your right to believe what you believe," he said after a while, and then took a bite and munched it for a while, not making eye contact with her. He swallowed, took a sip of water, then looked at her.

"Free will-it's a terrifying thing! The possibility to reject God! Such is the risk he took when He gave it to us, the consequence of enabling His creatures to love as He loves: freely, completely. He even limits his own power concerning our wills-sure, He can tweak them, move them towards goodness, towards Himself, but H never changes our will outright. Your choice is yours, Miss Simpson…though, I must ask, what provoked this choice-your abandonment of Christianity for Buddhism?"

She paused for a while, looking down, past her plate, into her past.

"Rev. Lovejoy."

Brian's eyes lit up, and a sad half-smile flickered.

"Yes. From what I've heard, he's caused more people to turn away from God than priestly molestation and guilt."

"I'd go to church with my family every Saturday, and it was all so boring. My dad fell asleep, Bart fell asleep when he wasn't goofing off, half the congregation fell asleep, even the organist! And Rev. Lovejoy always seemed so bored and tired with it all, rolling his eyes as he read the Gospel and yawning at the end of his own sermon. And there was Mrs. Lovejoy, front row every time, acting all prim and proper, turning her nose up whenever she looked at my family. Welcoming everyone indeed…And don't get me started on the Flanders. 'Oh! We're so good, we're so holy! Our biggest scandal was when Ned knocked over one of the ficus plants! We give soooooo much to the church. We're first in line for Heaven! Oooh!'"

Lisa blushed as she realized how much like her father she had acted when she was imitating the Flanders. Brian saw it too, looked away, smirking, then tried to take a drink, only to find he had already emptied his glass. He poured himself some more, then said to Lisa, "I'm sorry that such is your only experience with Christianity."

"Well, that's not all. Rev. Billy Graham, the pedophile scandal in the news, Pope John Paul II stance on various issues-oh! And that one time when the town legalizes gay marriage for six weeks, the only churches not allowing the couples to get married in them were the First Christian Church of Springfield…and the three Catholic churches in town."

"Yeah, those were some crazy weeks. I remember when a riot started outside of St. Mary Magdeline's Roman Catholic Cathedral of the Downtown. The Father Sean wouldn't let them in, and they started to scream and shout, I found out from one of my friends, and a bunch of us ran over to help the nuns block the door. Oh! The noise and the shoving all the anti-Catholic slurs and cursing. This one freak spat in my face and said that he was HIV positive-I got tested the next week, nothing. And then the Knight of Columbus showed up, and there was a even more yelling and name-calling and produce-tossing, and they stood there, like statues, taking it all. Then they drew their swords, you know, those supposedly 'ceremonial' swords they carry, and their leader steps forward and told them to disperse and get of the Church's property or they would charge. They all started laughing, until they _did_ charge, that is. And those swords, as it turns out, _are _real."

"As things in Springfield tend to do, it quickly devolved into an orgy of bloodshed and violence. I got some gay guy in the stomach with my pocketknife. Unfortunately, he was one of the burly steel mill types. I don't remember much after that, except waking up at the nurse's office at nearby St. Jerome's."

Lisa shook her head exhasperatedly.

"See, that's the problem. Why couldn't Fr. Sean let them in and marry them?"

"Because the Church teaches that marriage is the sacramental union between a man and a woman."

"But does it really matter, as long as they truly love each other?"

"Lisa, Lisa, it's perfectly moral, natural, and, in fact, commendable for a man and another man to love each other, it's when that love is corrupted from filial love to an unnatural, romantic, and ultimately, sexual relationship that it becomes sinful. The feelings, the thoughts are not inherently sinful, but rather, the act is. While homosexuality is not a sin, and the Church has never taught that it is, it is an ultimately unnatural state centered around a life of acts that are unnatural and mortally sinful."

"Almost every society throughout history, with the very visible exceptions of the ancient Greeks and Romans, have regarded homosexual acts as morally reprehensible, and a homosexual lifestyle as unnatural and harmful to the society. In nature, we see the model: male and female. In _Genesis_ we see the model: male and female, and that model is reaffirmed throughout the Old and New Testaments, as well as in the writings of the Fathers and Doctors of the Church, as well as its Popes and lay writers down to this day. Even in other modern faiths, we see that man and woman, in a loving and monogamus relationship, is the ideal."

Lisa thought for a while. _He's good…Frs. McGillis and O'Flaherty have taught him well. I can't take him on this one. Better try a different angle, and quick, while he's flushed with his supposed victory._

"Tell me, Professor, what is the difference between contraceptives and NFP?"

"The same thing that is different between a married couple that can't have children and a gay couple that can't."

"What, nothing?" she pressed, a sly grin spreading.

"No, the Will of God. With contraceptives, a couple is saying 'We will not have children unless we want to', while NFP, when used properly, let's a couple see when God is presenting them the opportunity to have a child and avoid it if they are not ready for a child. With a sterile couple, it is God saying they can't have kids, unlike the gay couple, whose relationship is inherently sterile."

Lisa smiled, a sympathetic smile. She felt sorry for him, so imprisoned in his 'fallacies'.

After lunch they listened to music-Van Morrison, Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, and even some Bleeding Gums Murphy. They took a walk out across the property, and watched the horses frolic in the pasture. They walked along the hillside, discussing the nature of government. Lisa, of course, defended democracy, albeit with socialist systems such as welfare. Brian was more in favor of monarchy, sticking with Aristotle's classification of government, yet grudging admitted a democracy was best as it is less likely to lead to gross abuse of power than a monarchy, which can easily become a tyranny. As they turned and walked along the edge of the cliff, Lisa looked out at the horizon.

"What a beautiful sunset!"

Brian froze. He looked at the sunset, his eyes full of dread. Lisa understood.

"We should go inside," he stated gravely.

"Yes…yes, definitely," she answered fretfully.

They reached the house just as the sun was touching the horizon. Once inside, Brian rushed about frantically, locking each door and closing each curtain. It became very dark in the large, cold house. Lisa stood in the dark, empty foyer. A sharp noise alerted her. She turned and saw Brian lighting the many candles in a large candelabra.

"Why don't you come up to the drawing room?" he invited, his voice booming in the high-ceilinged room, "I've a nice fire burning, and a pot of soy hot chocolate boiling?"

"Okay. But I should be calling my parents soon. They'll be worried."

"I have a phone up here. And we'll be seeing them at seven thirty at the Maison Derriere, anyway."

She ascended the stairs.

"Right this way," he said, with in a mock-frightening voice.

She followed him down the dark hallway.

"Doesn't this place have any lights?"

"No. It has no electricity. It does have running water though. God knows I couldn't live without a warm shower every night. It has no phone lines either, no cable, no satellite, and no mailbox. I live as much 'off the grid' as I possibly can. I just don't like the idea of 'Big Brother' knowing my every move."

"Wait, if you have no phone, how can I call my anyone?"

"Oh, I have a phone. It's a prepaid cellular phone that I hooked up to all the phones in the house. I have three phones in the house, they're just connected to a cell phone that can't be tracked."

"Oh, that's…nice."

He led her into a large room lit by candles and firelight. Several red sofas and armchairs were gathered around the large marble fireplace, in which hung a pot that was gently simmering.

"Please, have a seat, Miss Simpson."

"Thank you," she said. She felt uneasy in the undeniably romantic setting. Was he trying to impress her? Surely, a twenty nine year old celibate was no threat to her, was he? Sure, she new fifteen different forms of unarmed combat and countless weapons techniques, but did that matter against someone who knew them _and _was four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier? She quickly dismissed her thoughts as needless fretting. Brian was pure gentleman-courteous, chivalrous, borderline cavalier. If anything, his feelings for her were sweet and sympathetic, not aggressive and lustful.

She sat down in one of the sofas while he went to get the cocoa. He reached for the handle without a mitt and burned his hand.

"Ahh! Shizenkopf!" he swore as he shook his injured hand.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine," he said. He took a mitt off the mantle and took the pot off the fire. He handed Lisa a mug and filled it, carefully, as the cocoa was horribly hot.

"Careful now, its scalding hot."

Lisa blew on it cautiously. Brian set the kettle on an iron hook hanging near the mantle. He crossed across the dark room, fading into the red shadow. Lisa looked over her shoulder. His face came into view in the dancing light. He held out a telephone.

"Here, call your family, they should be worried."

He crossed the room again, the opposite direction this time, towards the door, and returned with a decanter filled with bourbon and a large glass. He filled the glass halfway, and swirled it about under his nose.

"Yes mom, I'm fine."

"Oh good! Are you alright with that lunatic?"

"Mom! He's not a lunatic, he's…eccentric…a romantic. His house is really lovely, you ought to see it!"

"Well, anyway, Robert and Mel should be over in about ten minutes to take to guys to the meeting. I'll see you there sweetie. Kiss-kiss, bye!"

"Bye mom."

"I'm flattered…'eccentric'…!" he laughed.

"Huh?"

"I've been called much worse…" he mused, looking off into the gloom. He took a long, dramatic gulp. "Yes, I drink too much. I smoke too much, I worry too much. And I sleep too little."

"You're really cutting into your life expectancy, you know."

"A little alcohol can be healthy," he countered, the contents of his glass sloshing about as he moved his hand.

"Well, I think you've already had about twice of what would be considered 'a little'. Plus, that's hard liqueur, not even wine. At least wine has beneficial amino acids in it."

"Oh hell…it numbs me. I need it. Man's gift and curse is to live and forget, live and die. To experience but to escape it, to lose life but to at least be able to escape the bad parts of it. And yet I don't forget. Do you believe in it Lisa?"

She did not answer. She leaned in closer to hear him better; his voice was barely a hoarse whisper.

"Fire…eternal flame…burning…burning the soul. I've seen them. I know the full weight of my sins. And in knowing it, the weight has broken me. My mind is gnawed away by the teeth of fear, the immense dread one has after seeing Hell-and knowing…how badly _he_ wants _me_!"

Lisa stared at him, horrified. These were not his normal, offensive views, These were something more real. This was fear.

"Who?"

"CAW!"

The black crow flew into the room. It lighted on the mantlepeice, upon the bust of Pallas.

Brian looked at it. It stared back, turning its head from side to side curiously. It stared with its beady eye.

"Depart, Demon, I rebuke," Brian muttered, looking into his now-empty glass.

The bird made no move.

"Depart, Demon. Leave this place now!" His voice had a rushed anger to it, a ritual impatience.

It rustled its wings and looked to Lisa. She sat transfixed, pinned to her seat by its shadow.

"In the Sacred Name of Jesus Christ, I command you leave!"

"CAW! CAW!"

"In the Name of God, the Father, Son, Holy Spirit, leave us!"

"CAW! CAW-CAW!"

"In the Name of JESUS CHRIST! GO AWAY!"

The bird let out a sickly croak. Like ink in water its shape dissolve in the shadow. The darkness spread out like a miasma, then retreated into nothingness.

Lisa was confused and horrified. Brian was still sitting in his chair, looking at his glass. The bird was gone, not a feather left. The phone rang.

"Mel and Robert are outside."


	15. A Close Shave

Telepathic/Prescient/Sentience

The world moved in warped waves across the car windows. Lisa looked out at the feral night world, and felt her heart rush with excited fear. Her mind was a muddled mess.

Brian Callahan was staring out into the darkness as well. His mind wandered, far beyond the now, back to a past. A past he hoped to never hear of again. He felt sickened and repulsed. His hand jerked, wishing it held a gun to press to his temple. But his pistol stayed snug in it's holster. He clenched his teeth, and looked out the window.

Sideshow Bob's sharp eyes flicked up to Lisa's reflection in the rearview mirror, then flicked back to the road. He felt the handle of his wazikashi against his stomach as he leaned forward.

They stopped at a red light. Brian looked up, at the lone figure standing on the edge of the curb. His head was down, as if he was looking at his navel. Brian kept on looking at him. It's head jerked up. The shadows hid his face. Two glowing red eyes appeared in the darkness. A cold wave rode across him, setting all his hair on-end. The light changed, and they drove away. He watched the figure as it retreated into the darkness.

Lisa looked from the window to her wrist. It was twenty after seven. _We'll be there early_, she thought. _Probably have to watch one of those god-awful dance numbers. And Brian will drink some more. Him, my dad, and Bart-not a liver cell between them._ Then a sharp pain flashed in the back of her skull. Her spine arched like a wire. The world pulled away as her eyes rolled up into her sockets. Her nose filled with blood.

The window shattered. A man in back leapt through, then another, and another. They rushed through the front door. The bouncer was shot in the face. They charged in, firing in every direction. The bartender was cut down. They took out axes and picks and knives and crowbars. Every table, every picture, every door was smashed. Overturn. Shattered. The door to the room was kicked in. They were all sitting on the filthy green couches. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat! Dead. She tried to jump, but a bullet caught her in the shoulder. Like glass the bones shattered.

She felt a hand slap-patting her cheek. The pavement came in underneath her.

"She's coming to!" she heard Mel shout at the edge of her consciousness. Her eyes slowly opened. She sat straight up, a thought buzzing about like a fly. It settled, and she screamed, "We have to call everyone! We have to stop them from getting there! It's a trap!"

"Lisa, calm down! You had a spell-"

"It was a vision, another one, wasn't it, Lis'?"

"We can't let them go to the _Maison Derriere_! They'll be slaughtered!"

"Brian, what is this-has Lisa developed schizophrenia?"

"No-prescience. Now you call Marge and Homer, Bob-call Bart and Jessica."

Brian took out his cell and called Millhouse.

"Millhouse VanHouten, this is Prof. Callahan. You must not go to the Maison Derriere. There has been a last-minute change of plans. Head directly to the Starbucks on the corner of Ming and Ashe. The _north_ one. The _northeast one._ Okay."

He hung up and dialed again.

"Father? Are you at the meeting place yet? No? Good. Turn around. Go to the Starbucks on the corner of Ming and Ashe. I'll explain later."

"Bart. Yes, tis I. Turn your ridiculous red sportscar around and head to the Starbucks on the corner of Ming and Ashe. The old one, yes."

"Dolph, new meeting place; the Starbucks on Ming and Ashe. Radio Nelson and tell him the same."

"Mr. Simpson? Its Sideshow Mel. Yes, I'm fine. There has been a sudden development, and we are now meeting at the Starbucks on Ming and Ashe. No, the one built two weeks ago."

"Mr. Flanders, its good that I got you in time. Do not go to the burlesque house, we are meeting at the Starbucks on Ming and Ashe."

All the appropriate calls had been made.

"Here, Mel, park the car," Robert said as he handed his cousin the keys. "Miss Simpson, here, I'll help you up. We'd better get you inside."

"Are you okay?" Brian asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

They sat down inside the Starbucks and waited. Brian got their drinks (a Chai Tea for Lisa, a Soy latte for Mel, a triple expresso for Robert, and a hot chocolate for himself).

"Lisa had a vision like this before," Brian explained as he brought back the drinks.

"The night they attacked the house, before it happened, I had a…I saw, I felt myself being tied up and killed by the vampires! It was like it was happening to me, but… it wasn't."

Mel looked to Bob. Bob said nothing. He furrowed his brow in thought, and took a long, slurping sip of hot expresso.

Homer and Marge rushed in. Homer had his gun slung across his back, and Marge had her sheathed katana in hand.

"Lisa! What's wrong? Bob, what's happening?"

"Its nothing to lose your wits over, Mrs. Simpson. Lisa had an experience that she has reason to believe was a premonition, and, to avoid the ghastly events foreseen, we are changing one of the key variables."

"Hrrrrmmm…"

Dolph, Neslon, and Millhouse rushed in.

"What's the deal?" Nelson asked.

"Oh, just a change of pace. Felt we should meet somewhere else." Lisa lied.

"Eh. Okay. So long as Sherri or Terri don't see me here. I told them I had to go answer a call about a bank robbery."

"I got nothin'," said Dolph.

The two priests joined them, then Ned. While they sipped drinks and Homer munched biscotti, Lisa explained.

Before anyone could express their disbelief, or concern for her mental health, Dolph's radio went off.

"Leutenant Dolph."

"All units, there's a gang war or some kind of riot at the old burlesque house."

They all looked at each other, shocked. Ned bit his lower lip, then adjusted his glasses as they slipped down his nose.


	16. The Trafficker

The Trafficker

Two cars arrived in the empty garage. Bart was unnerved by the lack of activity in the complex.

"Are you sure we have the right place?" Marge asked, voicing what they had all been thinking.

"Alucard is certain of it," Bob said.

They descended several levels, all of which were empty save their two minivans. Though the ceiling was no closer to their heads than it had been several floors above, the company felt the pressure of each floor above them weighing down upon them. They came at last to an elevator. Two bald men stood guard, their arms crossed and their eyes hidden behind dark glasses.

"Ready!" Brian said, loading a clip and putting it in his pistol. He tucked it into its holster, hidden beneath his coat.

"Okay," Bob sighed as he leaned in the window to give Jessica parting instructions, "You stay together, all of you. Watch the that screen there; Frink connected it to a motion-mass displacement sensor. It will show anything that's moving within one hundred meters. It'll give you a heads-up if anyone tries to get the drop on you."

"Got it."

They approached the two guards.

"We're here to see the Frenchman."

The guards looked to one another, then, without uttering a word, whipped out their pistols. Lisa was quick. She kicked the gun from the man's hand, bringing her leg down and throwing the momentum into a kick with the other leg. Her kick struck his temple, setting him to the concrete.

Bob took the other. He circle-blocked the gun to the side, seizing the pistol-holding arm. The guard's free hand went for Bob's face. Bob grabbed it with his left, while releasing his hold of the guard's gun arm. He pulled with his left and struck at his attacker's throat with his thumb, collapsing his larynx. Bob performed another circle block, knocking the man's arms aside, then struck with both hands open-palmed, knocking his body to the floor.

The elevator carried them to the twentieth floor. From there, another elevator carried them to the top, the sixty sixth. Across the elevator was a doorway, watched over by a slight man by a podium. Looking to others for confirmation, Bob walked over to him, the Simpsons and Brian following behind.

"We're here to see-"

"Le Traffiquer? Oui, Ah know. Right zeeth way, pleaze."

The lead them through the doors, into a large dinning area. The room was strange, every light seeming to be slightly too green. Everything was as though seen through thick glass. The diners were all great and finely dressed people, all of them silent and grave. They paid the hunters no head as the snippy maitre'di lead them through. At the back of the restaurant was a raised area, with one long, black table. At the centre sat the Traffiquer; Jacques.

Marge had to suppress at gasp at seeing her old flame. Jacques grinned.

"Ah, quel bon surprise. If it isn't Bart, the jarringly loud dee-jay. And Homer, the Adonis of the couch. Marge, darling, it's been a while. It seems the teacher is here-ah! and he brought his little pet, too! And of course, the legendary Robert Terwilliger! But where are my manners, please, sit, assesez-vous! Welcome to my home!"

They looked to each other in suspicion. They decided to sit.

"You know why we are here," Bob said in a low voice.

"Mais oui, but of course, I am a trafficker of information, it is my purpose to know. The question is, do you?"

"Yes."

"Very well. The answer is 'non'. We can not permit you to ruin one of our best customers. Even if his plans are utterly farcial, Burns shall be allowed to continue his designs to ressurect the Vampire King, and I shall not aid your equally futile attempt to stop him. You see, 'e is one of my best customers."

"Whatever he pays you-" Bob began.

"Now don't be cute: if it were a matter of money, I would gladly sell my fickle loyalty to the highest bidder. I am, after all, essentially a fickle and extremely pricey whore. And, speaking of which, there is someone here who I am sure 'Omer would love to meet." He snapped his fingers. A gorgeous red-haired woman in a black dress came slinking out from the corner. Homer's jaw dropped.

"Mindy!"

"Hi Homer."

"It seems to be a day for renewing old acquaintances, non? Marjorie, if you do not know, this fetching creature was once a coworker of 'Omer's. She nearly succeeded in seducing your 'usband, and she certainly succeeded in stealing 'is 'eart. Tell me 'Omer, do you still think of her? Perhaps, when Marge is not at home?"

Bob tensed. Marge made no visible expression of outrage, yet Brian noticed that she had reached for her katana and was squeezing the handle.

"Perhaps, when you two are making love, you imagine it is her beneath you? Would you like to try her? She's quite satisfactory. If you were to agree, in exchange for some quality time with your wife, I would most certainly be in a good enough mood to help your little cause. What do you say, Marjorie? A little tit for tat?"

Marge whipped out her pistol. It spun on the table, and she seized it, the barrel pointing directly at Jacques' stomach.

"How about you shove that offer up your ass and tell us what we want to know?" she growled. A gun was cocked near her ear. She turned her head and found herself staring down the barrel of a revolver. Jacques' bodyguards had sprung into action, all eyes and guns on the six hunters. Jacques laughed a hearty French laugh.

"ah, bien. But now I must say 'goodbye and adieu'." And he stood to leave.

"This isn't over!" Bart growled, his knife in hand.

"Yes it is. Go back to your _priest_ and that half-vampire freak Alucard and tell them that I know all, and Burns is more than rich enough to buy whatever information he needs from me. You will fail."

"Where are you going?" Mindy asked.

"Ah, to enjoy relations with one of my many other lovers who, like you, is confident she is the only one. Au revoir!"

The guards escorted them to the elevator, and pressed the button for them.

"Well, that was a load of crap."

"Marge…"

"What do we do now, Bob?"

"We're still no closer to knowing where Burns' lair is."

"Everything went wrong."

"No, not everything. Had everything gone wrong, we'd not be alive."

The lift stopped abruptly. The doors opened, revealing Mindy Simmons.

"Follow me."

The hunters followed their guide to a large office room.

"I am so sick of him and his bullshit. At first I thought he was charming, but then it turned out that he was nothing more than a disgusting, stinky Frenchman, and a vampire."

"The Traffiquer is a vampire?"

"Oh yes. How else do you think me manages such a large network? But seriously, I want to help you guys."

"What's in it for you?" Brian asked.

Mindy looked balefully at Homer. "Maybe some redemption. I don't know. If I knew where Burns' lair was, I would have staked him myself already. But even Stinky doesn't know where he's located. All I _can_ tell you is that Burns has planted a man in inside your operation. Its not him, no," said she, observing the way Lisa looked at Brian. "Somewhere else. But do not reveal this to the others. Function as you would, and he will continue to leak information to Burns. _False_ information, if you so wish. Burns will act on what he says."

"Thank you," Bob said, "At least now this little field trip wasn't a total wash.

They left for the lift. Homer lingered.

"Mindy-I-!"

"Homer, no. I know how you still feel for me. I still feel the same. But we just can't be. I'm just happy knowing that I can be of any help."

Homer handed her a flintlock pistol with a silver stake rammed down the barrel.

"For Frenchie. I hated to hear the way he talked about you."

"Thank you." Mindy said. She saw someone waiting by the door. Homer turned, and saw Marge. "Good-bye, Homer."

Homer nodded, and left.


	17. Ambush

Ambush

Mel noticed a beeping.

"What is that noise?"

"Huh?"

"Look!" Jessica said, pointing at the screen. A blinking red dot had appeared, and was moving ever closer to the green dot that represented their position. Another red dot appeared, and then another, until the map of the parking complex was crowded with ominous red.

"Out of the car!"

The nightly motorcade came within sight of the two cars the hunters had brought. They stopped, and several men in black SWAT gear stormed forth, brandishing rifles. Behind them came seven trios of pale men in grave finery, ornate swords sheathed at their hips. At the back sulked three brutish men, who twitched and sniffed like agitated hounds.

The armed men in riot gear opened fire, showering the hunter's cars with hot steel. The windows cracked then shattered, tires squealed as they were slashed open. A bullet struck the gas tank, and seconds later both cars were enveloped in flame.

"Whew! Lucky we got out in time!" Dante whispered.

"What we do know?" Paul asked.

"Those fellows with the rifles are heavily armed and armored, and we have but silver bullets. Against their heavy riot gear, we might as well be using sharpened sticks!" Mel said quietly, yet not without his melodramatic flare.

"They're still pretty tightly grouped," Nelson observed, "We have three of these nova grenades, and these pulse rifles have grenade launchers. I take two, Dante, you take one. You target that cluster over by our rides, or what's left of them, and I'll hit go for their second car there. Hopefully, the explosion will cause some of the other cars to blow too. Then you guys make a break for the elevator. Alucard, you cover them."

"Brilliant. And who'll cover me?"

"That's what the third grenade is for," Nelson answered, loading his pulse rifle. "Now!"

They fired. The nova grenades exploded, sending the dark clad soldiers flying.

"Go!"

Paul and Mel dashed for the elevator, firing behind themselves wildly. Alucard leapt from behind the cement pillar, a 9-mm pistol in each fist. He saw one of the armored troopers rising to his feet. He aimed both guns at his tinted plastic goggles, and squeezed off round after round. The reinforced plastic withstood the first two hits, then began to crack. The fifth bullet broke through, continuing on into the soldier's skull. A movement in the corner of his field of vision caught Alucard's attention; one of the pale warriors had drawn his sword, and was charging. With his left gun, he fired at the charging swordsman while, with his right, he fired sent a bullet flying directly towards a gap he had seen in the SWAT armor.

Nelson, Jessica and Dante charged out from behind the pillar, their pulse rifles screaming as hundreds of bullets streaked forth. Alucard turned and dashed for the elevators.

"GO! GO!" Nelson yelled as he stopped, unleashing another storm of silver bullets. He pumped the rifle, then fired the nova grenade. He spun about and had taken his first step when it detonated, unleashing a churning firestorm. Nelson threw himself to the ground, hands over his neck. He felt hot streaks of pain where shrapnel had found his flesh. Blinking away the blurriness, he looked up and over his shoulder. Several of the armored soldiers were getting to their feet; one staggered about blindly, his jacket aflame. The grim swordsmen had unsheathed their blades-none were hurt by the blast. Nelson heard his comrades calling for him to hurry over their sporadic firing. Coming to his senses, he picked up his rifles and sprinted for the door. He heard shots firing behind him, but kept running. A bullet grazed his thing, leaving a red gash that began to blaze with pain a second after it was made. Nelson threw his body at the elevator, plowing Sideshow Mel over in the process. The doors closed just as the masked gunners fired another burst.

"Owww….ohhhh…."

"Robert!" Mel yelled into his comm.

"Yes, cousin?"

"We have quite a bit of a situation. Several armed adversaries ambushed us in the parking complex."

There was the slightest of pauses.

"Casualties?"

"None dead, though Nelson's suffered some shrapnel wounds and has a cut on his leg."

"How many did you say there were?"

"I didn't say. If I had to guess, more than fifty, less than a hundred."

There was a loud slamming noise, and the elevator slowed and shuddered. Alucard's hawkish eyes darted about, while his face remained coolly indifferent.

"We've picked up a stray."

"What?"

"Your shotgun. Point it right there," he instructed, aiming the laser sight of his Beretta a spot on the wall, "Fire when I say."

Nelson pulled his shotgun from his back holster and aimed.

"Now."

Nelson fired. There was a terrible howling, then a scraping as whatever had been clinging to the lift car fell.

"What was that?"

"A werewolf. They probably sent him to disconnect our cables," Alucard said, looking up, in the direction of the heavy metal cables pulling them upward. "Which gives me an idea."

They exited the lift. They approached the other lift doors, and Alucard pried them open effortlessly.

"Shoot them out."

Nelson, Dante, and Paul raised their pulse rifles and fired. The cable snapped, and they heard the 'whoosh' as the elevator inside plummeted.

"It should buy us time at least. Lets find the others," said Nelson.

Homer raced along the corridor, his breaths wheezing horribly. Though in better shape than usual, he was still unprepared for the strain of running so speedily for so long. Marge pulled ahead of him as they rounded the corner. Behind him were Lisa and Brian, with Bart and Sideshow Bob bringing up the rear.

Marge heard rapid footsteps ahead. She stopped, and drew her katana. The others saw her, and stopped, readying themselves for action. They saw Mel and the others come from around the corner, brandishing their weapons.

"How many?" Bob asked.

"About twenty five or so vamps. They're armed, but no guns."

"That should make it easier," Marge said.

"But that's not all," Alucard said, stepping apart from the others, "They have-!"

He was interrupted by a growling. An enormous furred thing, like a gorilla in size but canine in its shape, came tearing around a corner, panting and splattering the floor with slobber. Bob fired but his shot missed, leaving a hole in the drywall. The thing lunged for Bart.

"Aye Carumba!"

Bart drew his sword, slashing at the air wildly. Before he knew what had happened, there was a naked man at his feet, blood oozing from his head and arms. Not comprehending, Bart looked at Bob, who had drawn his wakizashi. His blade was clean. Bart saw his sword; it was covered with dark, warm blood that was slowly sliding down onto his hands. Bart gasped and shuddered.

"The elevator to the ground level stops at the thirteenth floor. We're on the twentieth. The elevator on this floor goes down to the tenth," Mel said, consulting his palm pilot. "That elevator is on the other side of this floor."

"God! Who designed this place?" Bart exclaimed. Mel checked his handheld computer.

"Winchester Construction Co."

"Figures," Jess shrugged.

"Alright, let's go."

They set of down the corridor opposite of the one the werewolf had emerged from. After some time, they heard the heavy footsteps and clattering claws of the other four lycanthropes. Jessice looked over her shoulder, and saw the werewolves crawling along the walls and ceiling like grotesquely oversized flies. Marge turned. She unslung her pulse rifle and fired. A stream of bullets shot forth, leaving a jagged trail along the wall. She fired again, squeezing the trigger hard. The stream of bullets cut across the wall and to the wolfman. Holes erupted across its back and shoulders with showers of blood. It fell from the wall. Marge spun on her heel and raced to catch up with the others. The group had already reached the lifts and crowded in.

"Come on, Mom!"

Marge sprinted for the lift. She heard the crunching behind here as the wolves raced along the walls. She threw herself in as the doors closed.

The wolf saw the doors begin to close. It pounced, its hind legs catching the wall while its front paws shot between the closing doors. Its paws deformed and twisted into clawed, hairy hands, and it hauled the doors open, its fanged head swinging. Dante fired. Blood splattered the insides of the elevator as the wolf was thrown backwards and the doors slid shut.

"Phew!"

There was a whine as the doors above them were ripped open. Something heavy fell on top of the elevator.

"Oh…crap," Bart breathed, raising his TMP.

Alucard aimed his sighted handguns at two separate spots on the ceiling.

The lift was filled with the roar of arms. The roof was torn to shreds by the steady bombardment. A shotgun went off, blasting a hole the size of a basketball in the ceiling. A second thud signaled the arrival of another werewolf. The hunters began firing indiscriminately. Hearing a clank on the side of the lift, Nelson fired his 12-gauge at the wall, producing a large hole but no kill. There was a scrapping along the opposite side of the elevator, and Nelson turned. A clawed hand reached in from the hole in the wall, seizing Nelson by the shoulder and hauling him to the wall. A lupine head squeezing in through the hole, mouth agape, fangs dripping. Alucard, without even looking, jerked his second pistol at the head and fired. The wolf slumped dead, then slid out from the hole and fell down the shaft.

"That's one down!" someone shouted over the incessant gunfire.

Bart ripped a spent clip from his gun and shoved another in. He saw something dart across the hole in the ceiling and raised his gun to fire. The maintenance hatch rattled and began to open. Homer fired his shotgun, blasting the hatch open. Bart turned his focus from the hatch to the hole above him. Something large and furry fell through it. He saw mouth filled with teeth the size of his fingers and two copper eyes. He squeezed the trigger. The wolf knocked him over. He closed his eyes, readying himself for the crushing bite. It didn't come. He opened his eyes and saw the wolf's limp form on top of him. It shuddered, and began to twist and shrink, its matted fur falling in clumps. It turned into a small, young woman, her head torn open on one side by a cluster of bullets wounds.

The elevator stopped with a ding as they reached the tenth floor. The group hurried out of the elevator and gathered around Mel as he scanned his computer's map.

"Okay…we should go right down this corridor, then take a left, then turn left on the second adjacent hallway, and then two rights, and then we've reached the stairwell."

"Right."

They had barely taken a step when the second lift chimed and its doors opened. The sixth wolf pounced and tackled Brian to the floor. Brian tried to point his pistol at it, but the wolf's snapping jaws grabbed it and threw it aside. Brian clicked his tongue, summoning the hidden blade in his wrist guard. The werewolf responded by biting the blade, shattering it like glass.

Mel drew his rapier and lunged. The wolf looked up. The blade plunged into its left eye and straight into its brain. The wolf began to convulse on top of Brian. Mel twisted the blade, and the wolf shuddered and died. Mel helped Brian to his feet, and the group set off again.

They reached the stair well without incident. After three stories, they had reached the thirteenth floor. Mel consulted his palm pilot.

"The elevators are straight ahead."

They passed through a pair of double doors and found themselves in a vast room, overlooked by a large balcony connected by two staircases.

"The lift is up there," Mel pointed. The group began for the balcony. A bubbling laugh filled the room, and they froze, drawing their weapons. Jacques appeared on the balcony.

"Ah, mes amis, leaving so soon are we? Oh, non, non, non. I can not permit it!"

"What now?" Brian asked Bob. Bob looked to his cousin.

"We can reach the elevators the by the long route."

"I'll stay here and finish the bastard," Marge said coolly, setting aside her rifle and drawing her katana.

"No, Marge-!"

"Don't try an' stop me, Homer. I have a score to settle with him, seeing as your girlfriend Mindy really wasn't on our side after all."

"But Mom-"

"Go!"

Bob looked at the strange French vampire. "Good luck, Marjorie."

The others left, leaving Marge with her old _paramour_.

"So, its just you and moi, Jacques."

"Ah oui. Reminds you of old times, no?"

"_Porquoi tu ne viens pas ici?"_

"Humph! You honestly think that I would fight _you_? Ah, non. Ma petite copine, j'ai matters of _plus d'importance que toi_. But, if you're looking for a fight, I will not disappoint." He snapped his fingers. The doors on either side of him opened. Dozens of men in black suits and black masquerade masks filled out, brandishing bare katanas.

Marge grinned. Seeing the smile on her face caused strange sentimental feelings in Jacques hardened heart.

"That's my lucky charms; they're magi-"

"-cally delicious!" Marge finished, grinning.

Jacques chuckled, then snapped his fingers. One of the masked swordsmen raised his head with a jerk, then started down the staircase, katana raised and ready to strike. Marge focused herself, balancing on her feet. He swung. Marge ducked and slashed outwards, slicing his side wide open. He fell to the ground, blood spurting. Marge stood up proudly; then, the top of enormous hairdo fell off, having been severed by the ill-fated swordsman's swing. Her hair collapsed, falling loose around her shoulders. She shook her head, getting the hair out of her eyes. Jacques chuckled and snapped his fingers once more, sending a group of three more fencers down the staircase. They formed an inverted 'V' shape, ready to surround Marge on three sides. The first two leapt, striking at Marge. She swung rapidly back and forth, blocking their strikes as they landed on either side. The third charged. Block. Block. Strike! He fell. The to her left swung. Marge blocked and swung her sword at the attacker to her right, deflecting his stab and sending it at his comrade, who gasped and fell. The swordsman growled through gritted teeth and swung at Marge, who parried and countered. Parry, parry, stab. Her sword found her attacker's stomach. Marge's opponent, who she realized was a girl, gurgled as blood swelled up her esophagus, and raised her sword one-handed, in a desperate last-ditch strike. Marge pulled out her sword and spun on one foot, lobbing off the girl's hand. The girls coughed and slid along the wall to the floor, leaving a bloody smear.

"_Putain de merde_!" Jacques swore. "You may be skilled, Marjorie, but you and your friends will never escape this place alive!" He stomped to the door on his right, then turned and yelled, "Tear this fucking bitch apart!"

The remaining eleven Hunters raced down the labyrinthine corridors, following Mel and his palm pilot.

"Almost there! Just another thirty or so turns!"

"Gah! Will this never end!" Homer whined.

Alucard stopped and gave the order for the others to do so as well. The twenty-five vampires had just appeared at the end of the hall.

"Garrr-gnaht jp'nitha hai!" one growled. They drew their weapons, ready to fire.

"No," Alucard said softly, dropping his guns and straightening his grey suit. "It would be utterly dishonorable to use guns against opponents without them." He drew his sword, a long, thin blade.

"Screw that, man!" Bart said, taking aim.

"If honor isn't enough, then how about the fact that there are several large cylinders filled with flammable hydrogen gas behind the opposite wall?" Mel asked as he drew his dagger and rapier.

"I can't believe this! Dante said, slinging his pulse rifle over his shoulder and taking out his machete.

Marge danced wildly though the sea of bodies and flashing steel. Her katana slew to every opening she saw. She was pure momentum, directed by instinct and reaction. She has long ceased to be aware of the screaming, the dieing and the wounded writhing on the floor. She was an animal; her goal was survival for her own sake and the sake of her young.

The vampires charged. The Hunters charged to meet them. Mel ducked under a swing and whipped his rapier at the vampire's ankles, severing his Achilles tendons. He brought it up and around, cutting another's throat. He stabbed with his dagger, killing his first vamp.

Brian saw one of the vampires stumble. He swung and smashed open its head. Lisa blocked a swing and stepped past her attacker, slashing with her dao sword. He toppled over, his back muscles cut. Brian backpedaled, blocking strikes from a particularly fierce fighter. He finally made a mistake, falling for a feint, and Brian stabbed, piercing his heart. He pulled his sword out, and turned on the vampire Lisa wounded. He adjusted his hold on his sword and stabbed down, finishing him.

Marge ducked and dodged, ever moving, her sword never ceasing to strike and block. She pushed on, cutting through the numberless, nameless fighters, leaving a twitching, blood-spurting wake. She reached the door that Jacques had exited through. _I'll have just this one chance…_She reached out and seized the handle. The door opened, and she bolted through, slamming it shut behind herself. She bolted it shut, and turned, her katana held out from her stomach.

The room was dark and empty. Several computer screens glowed blue. A slight breathing caught her attention. She looked, and saw Mindy standing in the dim light.

"Where's Jacques?"

Mindy turned her head, looking at something on the ground.

"Dead."

Marge lowered her sword. _No…I wanted to kill that bastard!_ She walked over to where Mindy was, and saw Jacques, lying in a pool of blood, a silver stake through his heart.

"I take it you would have liked to have done it."

Marge looked at the woman disdainfully. She felt the drying blood on her face as her face twitched.

"He tried to seduce me. He almost ruined my marriage."

"He ruined my _life_!" Mindy burst. Marge didn't flinch.

"So what? He's dead now. Go on and get out."

Mindy made a strange smile.

"Oh, by the way, he's rigged the place with bombs! In ten minutes, this place will be nothing but ashes!"

Marge's eyes widened.

"Can't you turn it off?"

Mindy frowned and shook her head.

"That's why I didn't kill him sooner. I wanted the codes to deactivate them, but he said he'd locked the system so they couldn't be turned off."

"Well, we'd better leave now."

"But I can't. You see?" Mindy said almost mirthfully, pulling up her puffy red hair to reveal two small holes in her neck. Marge stepped back, but her face remained coolly indifferent.

"You're one of them," she said flatly.

"Yes. And I want…I want you to kill me."

Marge paused.

"No."

Mindy's eyes glistened in the dim blue light.

"Why?"

"That would be what you wanted. I can't do that for you. You almost destroyed my husband the way Jacques tried to destroy me."

"But you must! How can you let a vampire live! You're a Hunter! Isn't that your duty?"

Marge didn't respond. The door shuddered as the swordsmen on the other side tried in vain to break it.

"Please…I beg of you! I can't _feel_! Not the wind on my cheeks nor the smell of the night! I can sense, but not touch! I can remember love, and joy, and all that is good, but I can not enjoy it! All I know is cold, and fear, and loneliness! Please…please…"

Marge watched her as she slid to her knees, grasping at her bloodied yellow tracksuit. Marge raised her katana.

"May God have mercy on you."

She struck.

The Hunters reached the elevator. All had survived the onslaught, but not without cost. Dante was badly wounded, as were Paul and Nelson. Brian had a black eye and a broken nose, and would occasionally cough and loose a tooth. Jessica limped painfully, cursing herself for wearing heals to a fight.

They waited for Marge, each second intensifying their worry. Finally, she appeared, hair flying behind her, her outfit stained red-brown with blood.

"Go! Go! Go! There's a bomb!"

"What!"

"A bomb!"

Bob pressed the button for the first floor. Marge ran onto the lift.

"What took you so long?"

"I met some…resistance."

"Jacques is dead," she said, gasping for breath, "Mindy killed him."

"Where's Mindy?" Bob asked.

"Dead…she…was…a vampire."

"No…" Homer gasped.

"I'm sorry, Homie."

They reached the ground floor and raced for the outside. They sprinted from the business complex and down the street. There was rumbling. The sky filled with light, and they through themselves the ground as their eardrums were assaulted by a deafening roar. Marge looked up, and saw the Jade Building collapse into smoking rubble.


	18. Plan B

Plan B

"Well, that sure was a waste!" Millhouse sighed as he plopped down on the dusty couch.

"Well, I guess we're back to where we started," Brian mused.

"Not quite."

"What's that Marjorie?"

"After I finished Mindy, I noticed her shoes. There was a note hidden under one of the straps on her stilettos." Marge took the note from her pocket, unfolded it, and read aloud. " 'Jacques knows: 1. Eric is in Dance Horizons dance troupe. 2. Said dance troupe is scheduled to perform next Saturday night at the Halloween Carnival. Burns knows this as well-he bought this information for ten millions dollars two days ago-Mindy'."

"But what can we do? Burns won't be there himself, he's not that stupid."

"But he will send one of his people there. Perhaps we could follow them?"

"I have a better idea, da-foy!" a nasaly voice interrupted. Prof. Frink entered the Simpson's living room. "I have devised this transmitter that can be placed inside Eric's stomach via a small incision, burhey. It will produce a homing signal that can be detected from over thirty miles, forty five kilometers, hoohoo. If you were to let Burns capture the boy, you could then follow the signal to his lair and kill him, nghavit."

"No way I'm letting Burns get my boy!"

"Forget it, Professor!" Marge said.

"Wait…wait…" Alucard said, looking deeply pensive.

"You have an idea, Alucard?"

"Yes. Professor, that transmitter can be placed in a projectile, correct?"

"Why certainly. I developed it from a dart that designed that allows biologists to track-"

"I have a plan. Eric goes to the carnival. Burns' minions will try and capture him. Plan A, we stop them but are able to get a tracking bullet in one of them, and we follow him back to the lair. Plan B, they capture Eric, but we can follow the tracker in _him_ as well as the one in Burns' lackey back to lair."

There was silence while the Hunters weighed the idea.

"Its risky."

"Its our best bet," Robert said. "We're no closer than we were a month ago to knowing where Burns lair is. The only way to save Eric and Maggie is to kill Burns. And to do that, we must find him."


	19. Defeat

Defeat

The sun was setting. A chill breeze came from the east, making the leaves to tremble. Lisa and Brian walked along the darkening path, breaths trailing behind them like ghosts. Brian wore a long brown duster, which concealed his sword and carbine. Lisa wore an elegant Chinese gown, her dao sword hanging at her hip. Her hair was in a bun, held together by two silver chopsticks.

"Are you sure we can get through the gate with all the security?"

"I should think so. With any luck, they'll think us nothing but anime junkies."

"What if they ask me what character I'm supposed to be?"

"Just say Yoko or Taki or some Japanese girl name and they'll wave you through."

"And you?"

"Either something from 'Castlevania' or 'Full Metal Jacket'."

" 'Alchemist', Brian. 'Full Metal Jacket' is a film by Stanley Kubrick."

Brian stopped for a moment, a strange look on his face.

"No wonder I got beaten up at the Bi-Mon-Sci-Fi-Con!"

They passed through the gates with no trouble, and found Homer, Marge, and Eric sitting by the Five-H food booth. Homer was on his third linguisa sandwich.

"Hey," Brian said.

"How's our situation looking?" Lisa asked, sitting down at their table.

"Nelson and Dolph are here on police duty, but they brought silver ammo for their guns. Maggie is with Bart and Jessica, and Ned and Millhouse are shadowing them. Sideshow Bob is at the knitting booth in the exhibit barn, which is right across from the stage. And Mel is with Krusty at the Dunk-A-Clown."

"What about Alucard, and the Fat Tony's men?"

"Alucard is moving around, hiding in the shadows and looking cool," Homer said sarcastically, "And the Italians are over by the Sons of Sicily food booth."

Marge checked her watch.

"Its almost time Eric. Hurry up and finish your hot dog."

"Mom, why are carrying an enormous assault rifle?" Eric asked.

"Oh, this? Oh, well, like I said, I'm going this year as Sigourney Weaver from 'Aliens'."

"Then why are you carrying a katana and wearing a yellow outfit?"

"Well, I, uh, also wanted to go as the Bride from 'Kill Bill', and I couldn't quite make up my mind. Heh heh. Come on, honey, let's get you over to your dance friends. Heh."

Marge led Eric over to the stage.

"You guys still haven't told him?"

"How could we?" Homer whined. "Imagine, you're nine years old-"

"Eleven."

"Whatever, and you get told by your parents that your dad's old boss has risen from the dead and needs your blood to resurrect the King of the Vampires and bring about the Apocalypse. Its enough to give any kid issues!"

They walked over to the performance area, and sat down on the bales of hay to watch the dance. Eric's group was performing 'Thriller', with Eric and Felicia as the two key dancers.

They finished the dance. They bowed, and the audience applauded. A shot was fired. Marge raised her rifle, Homer pulled his shotgun from the hay bale, and Brian whipped his carbine out from his jacket. A group of armed men in black robes and hideous latex masks was charging for the stage. One pulled a pistol, and fired a dart at Eric, striking him in the shoulder. Eric whimpered and fell over. Marge aimed a burst at the man's face, shredding it. His fellows fired. Lisa flipped over the bale of hay and crawled to a nearby table. She flipped it over and called to the others. Brian, who had ducked under one of the hay bales, fired another burst at the attackers the dropped and crawled over to her. A second group came at Bart and Lisa, guns leveled at their faces. Homer saw and fired his shotgun, killing all four. Marge let out a solid stream from her pulse rifle, taking out the three gunmen.

A bullet whizzed past Marge's ear. Another group of armed men came running out from backstage, firing wildly. Marge turned and somersaulted to a nearby tree. She heard the bullets rattling the trees trunk as her assailents tried to hit her in vain, then Homer's shotgun as he fired at them from behind the table.

A trio of black sedans arrived in the parking lot, their passengers leaping out before they had even come to a full stop. They stormed up to the gate, shooting the woman in the ticket box. Seeing Marge hiding behind the tree, they took aim. A spray of bullets plowed into them.

"Take that, youze!" Legs yelled, his fingers squeezing the trigger of his Thompson gun. The Sons of Sicily had sprung into action, Tommy guns and Ak-47's blazing.

Another group of attackers came from behind the stage. Lisa took out her comm.

"Bob! Mel! Nelson! Anybody!"

"Lisa? Don't worry, I'm on my way."

Bob dropped his pamphlet about macramé and rushed out of the exhibit bar. He raised his semi-automatic rifle and fired, again and again and again. Nearly every shot was a kill.

The sun slowly passed below the horizon. The Simpsons and their allies paid no notice. In the exhibit barn, at the Blackhearst and Co. Mortuary and Funeral Home booth, the 'display' caskets burst open, their UnDead occupants leaping forth.

"What in the blazes?" the man at the booth exclaimed. A casket behind him opened, and the vampire inside pounced, sinking its fangs into his neck.

Bob turned and cast aside his rifle. He drew his katana and wakizashi and charged.

Homer heard a hideous screech. He looked to the sky and saw three black shapes hurtling towards the supine Eric. He took aim and pull the trigger. The shotgun clicked, but there was no blast. He opened the chamber and found that it had jammed. He threw the gun aside in anger. The shot went off.

"D'oh!"

He reached for his uzi. Before he could aim, a werewolf pounced upon him, its snapping muzzle searching for his neck. Homer's gun skidded aside. As he struggled to keep the deadly fangs away from his face, Homer heard the winged things squawk and dive. One caught Eric, seizing him in its talons. Homer tried to reach for his gun, but the wolf was too quick, snapping his hand. Homer's glove kept the beast from sinking its fangs into his skin, but the force of the bite was such that several bones broke upon impact. He wolf swung its head back to Homer's face, ready to tear his throat. A shot rang out above the din, and the wolf slumped over. Mel had felled the wolf. He opened the chamber of his rifle, inserting the special tracking bullet Professor Frink had constructed. He aimed at the winged monsters now fleeing with Eric. He fired. The bullet found purchase in one of the gargoyle's fleshy haunches.


	20. Treachery

Betrayal

They arrived at the abandoned mansion. The sun was high in the sky-there would be no ambushes today. The vampires would be exhausted from the previous night, and would be unable to brave the daylight. Even if they dared so, they would be extremely weak, and easily defeated. Frink's mass-displacement sensor indicated that there as no amassement of troops, or at least, those that scientific devices could detect.

Nelson used his police-issue boltcutters to undo the locks on the front gate. The motorcade rolled up the overgrown drive, and the Hunters pilled out, weapons flashing in the sun. The door was locked, but luckily, Nelson had also brought a police battering ram. The mildewed wood was smashed away, and they stormed inside. What they found was all at once disheartening and bewildering.


	21. Ghola

Ghola

Ned backed away, sweat beading at his brow. He held out his hands, as if to stop the advancing Simpsons and their friends.

"So Ned, what's this all about?" Jessica asked.

"Now, l-look fellas, you're not saying that you believe that fibbin fiend now…I mean, its me Ned! Who're yer gonna believe."

"I say we kill him!"

"Cool it Homer!" Bart growled. "So, neighbour, what did he promise you? Wealth? Power? That when we were all dead you'd get all our stuff?"

Ned stopped.

"You don't understand…" he said in a fierce whisper, "Burns is too powerful! He _can't_ be destroyed!"

"Who said? Burns? Ned-" Marge tried to explain.

"SHUT-UP! Damn you all! You made me do this! You annoying, two-faced, lying jackas! You took all that I had from me! All that mattered!"

"And doing the same to us makes it up?" Homer asked.

Ned's eyes flashed. He drew his pistol. The others did the same.

"You…of all people…you're the one who killed Maude! You idiot! You stupid, stupid idiot!"

"Now Ned…" Homer said nervously. Ned's gun was trained on him. "What would God think?"

"There is no God!"

"Gasp!"

"For Maude…" He set his finger on the trigger. Everyone made ready to fire. Homer gulped.

Blam. Ned fell to the ground without so much as a whimper. A single hole dripped blood and grey matter from his skull.

"Nice shot, Pauli."

"Thus die all traitors."

They buried Ned's body in the cemetery, next to his wife's grave. Lisa noticed that Maude's grave looked disturbed, as though someone had tried to dig her up. _Probably exhumed for something. A day doesn't go by that the city council doesn't end with digging someone up._

"So Maude was the motivation…poor Mr. Flanders," Lisa sighed.

"Poor Ned never got over her death…" Marge said.

"It seems hardly enough reason to work for Burns. Sure, its reason enough to kill me, hey, everyone has wanted me dead at one time or another, but no one's allied with the soulless UnDead to do it, especially 'Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes-I'm-So-Good-And-Christian'!"

"Homer!"

"What? He's dead, its alright to talk about him!"

"Hrrrmmm…"

Sideshow Bob had left the group by the grave to make a phone call.

"Yes, yes. Thank you, Professor." He hung up and walked over to the others.

"I just spoke with the Professor. He discovered something interesting."

They drove from the cemetery and into the grimy innercity. While they were stopped at a red light, several tough gang members crossed the street, leering and making violent gestures at the Simpsons. Homer pressed the button for the door locks as soon as they were looking away. The sound of the locks made them spin around and brandish their guns.

"Drive! Drive!" Marge screamed. They escaped with a few bullets in their back fender. They met the others at an abandoned crematory. Prof. Frink was with them.

"The other day I was touring the pawn shops of the downtown for one of those old violet ray machines. Once used as a cure for common warts, no longer used as it was ineffective at best and at worst was carcinogenic, I needed one for my new death ray, with the zapping, and the killing. Anyhoo, I stopped at the Kwik-E-Mart, and who should I see, _purrny'oy_, but Dr. Nick. He paid for his case of beer and got in the car-with Waylon Smithers!"

"Goodness! Do you know what this means?"

"Dr. Nick is gay?"

"No! Nick is working with Burns!"

"I still don't see why you brought us to this old crematorium, though I have a gut feeling I soon will," Lisa reasoned.

"And that you will. I was going through the read-outs from the tracking devices. The one in Eric went straight to the mansion, where it stayed, but the tracker bullet went to the mansion, came here, and _then_ returned to the mansion. That, and my noticing of smoke coming from its chimneys, lead me to conclude this is another Burns hideout."

"Could Burns have been bluffing?" Brian asked.

"We'll soon find out," Professor Frink said, walking back to the car and opening the trunk. He pulled out a large, unwieldly gun, and aimed it at the padlocked door of the crematorium. A pale violet beam shot forth. The door shuddered, then burst into flames and collapsed inward like a burning leaf.

"Cool!" Bart exclaimed.

"Why not just use _that_ on the vampires?" Millhouse asked.

"Because it doesn't work. Also, it uses ten car batteries in one shot."

They entered the dark and musty building. Death hung in the air like dust.

"I don't like this," Marge murmured.

After some searching, they found a the door to the basement.

"The most logical hiding place for vampires during the day," Alucard said.

"Be ready," Bob warned. He kicked the door open.

"Hi everybody!"

"Hi Dr. Nick!"

"Dr. Nick! What are you doing down here?" Lisa asked.

"Good question little girl. You see, I heard that someone wanted some of my blood! When I saw the add in the paper, I thought it was asking for the blood I drain from my patients while they're in surgery, not my own blood! Next thing I knew, I was involved with a terrible Satanic ritual, and was being attacked by a vampire, Mr. Burns! When I came to, he told me that he had resuscitated me by restoring my cells to life with nanobots."

"Wait, one _glavin_ minute here, that sounds very much like my process for creating ghola, patent pen-_ding_!"

"Ghola?"

"A re-animated corpse," Lisa murmured.

"Like a zombie?" Bart asked.

"No, Bart," Robert said, "A zombie is merely an altered form of a once human life, caused by a virus. Ghola, the name coming from that of similar creatures in Frank Herbert's _Dune_ saga, are the bodies of human beings, once dead, brought back to life. More like Frankenstein's monster."

"That's right, Sideshow Bob, I am a Frankenstein!"

Nick showed them his 'practice': the filthy basement of the crematory, filled with dormant vampyr, many of them wounded from the night before, and either lying dormant on bloody operating tables or floating in tanks of blood. Marge looked at one of the vampires, a look of disgust in her eyes. She fired her pulse rifle, shattering the tall, blood-filled cylinders. They burst, spilling their pale, limps contents to the cement floor. Marge blasted them, hot streams of flying silver obliterating their faces and rending their flesh. Homer decided to follow Marge's example. He took his axe and beheaded a vampire on a nearby stretcher. Bob took his stake and hammer, and drove the sharp silver tip into one of the UnDead's hearts. Within minutes, the basement floor was covered with several inches of blood. Fr. O'Flaherty took out a bottle of holy water, and poured it into the churlish red pool. The blood began to froth and boil where the holy water was poured. The churning and bubbling spread, and the red liquid began to steam and hiss. In seconds, what had been blood was water.

"There's something else I have to show you," Nick told them. He led them through a door and into another room. The room was filled with the electric glow of countless electronic devices and computer drives. A large vertical cylinder stretched from cylinder filled with strange green fluid stretched from ceiling to floor. Inside floated the naked corpse of Maude Flanders.

"Dear God…" Fr. Molloy gasped. Millhouse took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

"What in the world is this?"

"A ghola tank, silly! The same one Burns put me in to reanimate my cells and restore any cell death after he drained me of all my blood!"

"And Maude…"

"He said it was a present for his secret spy in your midst…"

"Oh, Ned!"

"So this is how Burns was able to bend to will of a moral man to his evil," Brian said.

"Did Burns come by last night?"

"No. But I did get a call this morning from Mr. Smithers telling me to patch up all the vampires I wanted then go home. He fired me! Can you believe it!"

"Did he say where he was headed?"

"Transylvania, with Mr. Burns!" the enthusiastic doctor replied.

The hunters huddled around Bob.

"Burns is headed towards Transylvania with Maggie and Eric. He needs Dracula's corpse to resurrect him, so he'll have go to Caslte Dracula. There, we'll stop him."

"But how?" Marge asked. "He may wait for weeks before going to the castle, and he could already be halfway there!"

"No," Alucard corrected Marge, "He has to go there before Halloween. The ritual will be performed this Friday, at midnight. It is the one time that Halloween falls on a Friday with a full moon this century."

"I'll tell the boss," Legs said, referring to Fat Tony, "We have a jet, but we won't be able to take all of ya."

"Okay, one group will take the mafia staff jet, the other will by a direct flight to London. The mafia plane will head for Paris, then Budapest. The second group will go from London to Greece, and north from there to Romania. Whatever path Burns takes, we'll get him."

They started to leave.

"What about Mrs. Flanders?" Lisa asked. The group paused. They looked at the naked body floating in the eerie green goo, then to Fr. O'Flaherty. He sighed, and furrowed his brow.

"Its not like a clone, a new life that is genetically identical to another human…"

"Does it have a…soul?" Brian asked.

"No. No, I'm certain." He frowned and shook his head. "Get the poor lass out of there and give her a proper burial."


	22. Given The Slip

Given the Slip

They deplaned at a small airport outside Athens. Three men stood waiting to greet them.

"These are my European contacts, part of the global anti-vampire network," Sideshow Bob said introducing them, "This is Jack Krauser, a vampire hunter from Germany. Joshua Wallach, a martial artist and Australian citizen who was in London when I called him, and I believe that most of you are already familiar with Lugash Petrovich Nyladina and Akira Satomura of the Happy Sumo."

"Robert, we have some unfortunate news," Akira said in his wispy voice, "Burns' plane did'not l-rand here in Athens."

"What?"

"What'd say? I wasn't listening?" Bart asked.

"He gave us the slip and landed in Krone," Krauser said briskly.

"He is about two days ahead of us. Luck-uri, he and his men are on horseback,

travel-ring the back country roads with a band of gypsies."

The party was anxious and disheartened. Bob frowned, and took off his dark glasses.

"We must hurry then."

"Our bus is out front. We'll catch up with them quickly if we take the main highways, but we'll have to go after them on horses ourselves eventually. Castle Dracula is far from any major civilization, and roads are virtually nonexistent."

"We'll get out stuff then," Bart said. "C'mon Jess!"

"Ooh, Bart. I just hate this!"

Their four greeters led them to a battered double-decker bus in front of the airport. Krauser started up the engine, and the group began to board.

"Haw! Haw! Hoho!"

Brian spun on his heel. An enormous black raven was pearched on a nearby statue of Pallas Athena. He stared at it, and the croaking bird stared back, tilting its head and looking at him with its black eye. Lisa noticed Brian's strange behaviour.

"Brian? Brian, what is it?"

He made no answer, but kept staring. Lisa followed the line of his gaze until she saw it. Without moving her head she looked at Brian. His hand was already heading for his pistol. The bird cawed once more and took off. Brian fired from the hip, and miraculously hit his target. The bird squawked and tipped head down in the air. Fell to the pavement, and burst into brilliant blue flame. When the flames died, the crow's white skeleton lie on the ground, the black ashes from its body in the shape of a crow with its wings widespread beneath it.


	23. Transylvania

Transylvania

They arrived in Romania early in the morning. From there they took the bus as far as it would take them. From there, they went on horseback, crossing through the rugged highlands and mountains. Their goal was the Castle Dracula, on the border of Wallachia and Transylvania.

The horses were weary. They hooves barely cleared the ground with their shaky strides, and salt formed on their flanks where sweat had long dried.

"We have to break," Fr. Molloy said, whoaing his mount and sliding off.

"Yer right. There's no sense in killin' the poor beasts this far from the castle."

"How far you figger we are by now?" Nelson asked, leading Fr. Molloy's horse and his over to a tree.

"About two day's ride from the village. On horses, that's about half a day to the castle."

"Up the Borgo Pass," Dante half-asked. He could scarcely force himself to believe it; he did not want to believe it.

"What's the Borgo Pass?" Millhouse asked.

"The winding mountain road to my father's castle," Alucard said, "A path fraught with peril. We'd best time our journey so we reach the castle before nightfall."

"Yes. But I doubt the house of Dracula would provide much protection at night."

"No. But there are places of safety within its walls still. Places where no dark thing can enter, where the touch of Dracula has not reached. I speak of the chapel. There were two chapels, in fact, but the one is now little more than a ruin. The main chapel is still intact. And it is in that very chapel that Burns seeks to revive Dracula."

"Wait a minute! I thought tha' no vampire could ever set foot in a blessed place," Seamus interrupted.

"Normally, no. But there are ways a holy place could be made temporarily safe for a vampire. By removing all blessed items and holy images, and celebrating the Profane Mass, the blessing of a place can be temporarily 'suspended', so that a vampire may enter, or, in Dracula's case, be reborn. In fact, specific ritual Burns seeks to perform require a holy place perverted, and is made stronger by its location in Dracula's ancestral home, where he was born, raised, and was killed."

"You said the 'blessing' was temporarily suspended…?"

"Of course, once blessed a thing is forever of God. The ritual vampires and their slaves use is only a brief reprieve, and often lasts only for one night, and is impossible to repeat. I believe the Devil-worshipper's spells say it can only be done once a century, on the dark of the moon. As it is, this Friday is the full moon, so if they performed the ritual, they did so earlier this month."

He paused. Fr. O'Flaherty looked around; Nelson had tied the horses to a nearby log. Dolph had started a fire, and Kearney was preparing the tents.

"Of course, the Devil's rules aren't God's rules. A place can be made holy again simply by blessing it. Celebrating the Mass does the same, as can exorcism, if the place is inhabited by evil spirits. A place can be 'evil-proofed' if repeatedly blessed and exorcised. Of course, much of this is theory, based on personal experience and those of a few exorcists I've met."

"But," Fr. Molloy asked tentatively, "If we get there in time, we'll be able to re-christen the chapel, and that will stop Burns, right?"

"From resurrecting Dracula? For the time being, yes. But he very well may kill Maggie and Eric out of spite, and then go ta make mischief all across the continent, causing us considerable trouble for many years, even decades." He looked to his young acolyte, and set his hand on his shoulder. "Therein are the two harder objectives: saving the two children, and killing Burns for good."


	24. A Little More Explaining

A Little More Explaining

"What was that?"

"One of Burns' spies," Bob sighed, not looking to see who had asked the question.

"Spies?"

Bob turned his head. Marge had asked the last question.

"Yes. Animals can be possessed just as humans; in fact, an animal is easier for a dark spirit to overtake that a human. Some creatures, when used in Satanic rituals, can become 'magnets' for evil spirits, seeming absorbing untold numbers of demons. Such creatures can not only be control by vampires such as Burns, but become extensions of his will an consciousness. Larger creatures, large dogs or wolves even, can be used by the Vampyr to guard their resting places during the day."

"The hounds of Hell!" Lugash said.

"Exactly. Smaller animals like bats, birds, rats and mice, are not much use for such purposes, but can serve the Vampyr in other ways, usually as spies. That crow Brian killed was acting as Burns' eyes and eyes during the day, following us while he sleeps during the day."

"He used the crow at night too, Bob. Remember?"

"Oh yes, that incident in your home. Tell me again, where do you live?"

"That old mansion at the edge of the orange groves outside of town."

Bob gasped. Krauser looked over his shoulder to see what had elicited such a response, and nearly ran an elderly couple off the road as he drifted into the oncoming lane.

"Mr. Burns used to own that property when he was alive."

Brian's face betrayed no reaction, but his gut clenched and he bit down hard.

"That bird under his control could enter your house at will!"

Later on, Bart went to talk to Joshua.

"So, you're from Australia, huh?"

"Not originally. I'm an expatriate."

"Zuh?"

Jessica clucked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "He used to be an American, duh!"

"I knew that," he said quickly."

"No, you didn't, Bart."

"Look you want to talk about something-!"

"So! What state are you guys from?" Joshua asked, curtailing their argument.

"Oh, we're both from Springfield-" Jessica began.

"Hey everybody! We're going through a tunnel! Hold your breathe and make a wish!"

"Uh, Homer, the tunnel is seventeen kilometres long!" Bob said.

"So? I can hold my breath that long!"

"Do you know how long a kilometre is?"

"Shut up!"

Ten minutes later… 

Lisa and Marge hefted Homer off the floor and laid him on one of the bus seats.

"Anyway," Joshua was finishing, "I stayed in Australia a couple weeks the summer of my junior year, and I loved it so much that I went to uni there."

"Juh?"

"University," he explained.

"Fuh?"

"Kaw-lehge!"

"Ohhhh!"

"…and I've lived there ever since."

Nelson, Kearney, and Dolph cam down the bus aisle.

"Hey Wallach, I hear you're pretty good at Tae Kwon Do and all that crap."

"Yes, I'm the reigning champion right now in all of Queensland."

"Let's see some moves."

"I don't perform. I use the ancient arts only for self-defense and the protection of the weak."

"C'mon, man! We wanna see some Kung Fu!"

"Fine. Any volunteers for a quick demo?"

Bart stood.

"I'll go."

"Alright," Joshua said, standing up. Bart grinned smugly. Though an entire foot taller than Bart, Joshua Wallach was extremely thin, with fine, feminine features and unwieldly limbs. Bart was certain that, with his newly-acquired knowledge of fighting, that Wallach would be put to shame.

"Ha!" he said, throwing a powerful punch. Wallach blocking and delivered three quick strikes to Bart's torso. He froze, a look of shock and indignation on his face. Josh grinned, and pushed Bart over with a single poke to the forhead.

"Haw-Haw!"


	25. The Castle

The Castle

The two priests, the policemen, the dhwampyr, and the geek arrived at the village at noon, Friday the 31st. They soon noticed something amiss. No chimneys trailed smoke; no cars were being driven; no dog barked, nor were there any signs of activity.

"This is not good," Fr. Molloy whispered.

The priest could not have made more of an understatement. As they entered the village, they saw just why the hamlet was so eerily quite. The streets were littered with the bodies of the dead. Men, women, children, pets and livestock, all slain. Blood dried in puddles in the dirt, and flies swarmed around the corpses.

"Vampires…" Fr. Molloy said. Even from high on his horse, it was obvious. No neck was unmarked, with some bearing several sets of fang marks.

"Not all of them," Dante said. "Hey," he called to Nelson, "Those guys killed by what I think?"

"Gunshot wounds."

As they road through the morbid town, they saw more victims of human violence. Near the well they found three men, one more looking barely in his teens, leaning against the brick well, rifles still clutched in their rigoring grip. Two were clearly killed by bullets, their heads riddled with holes from with streams of black blood had dried and congealed. The boy had endured the greatest cruelty: a pitchfork had been driven through his chest.

"Let get out of hear," Millhouse said.

"I agree with the shrimp, let's get to the castle."

They forced their mounts up the mountain road, up into the Borgo Pass. At they rode along the narrow mountain road for hours, the sun slowly sinking in the horizon. Their horses hastened without being told so-they were clearly eager to be out of the open before night fell. They reached the accursed castle late in the afternoon. They stopped outside the castle walls, waiting as Alucard raised one hand and sniffed the air. He dismounted, and, drawing his rapier, entered the courtyard alone. There was screaming, and sporadic gunfire, and then…silence. He returned, hair neat, clothes clean, looking, as always, coolly indifferent.

"We should have no trouble now."

They walked their horses into the courtyard, and saw Alucard's handywork. Whoever had performed the ritual, if Fr. O'Flaherty's theory was correct, had left an armed company to protect the castle from any curious snoopers.

"These were probably the guys who did some of that crap down in the village."

They tied their horses in the stables, which had clearly been restored since the Vampyr King was last slain in 1889. They then proceeded into the castle, Alucard leading the way.

"God…its so different…yet so the same…"

"Luca," Fr. O'Flaherty injected, using Alucard's nickname, "Time is not on our side."

"Right…yes. Alright, Nell, Dante, and you, four-eyes, come with me. I'll show you the chapel. The rest, go into the dungeons. If there are any of the vampires who destroyed the village still hiding in this castle, they're through that door there. Be thorough; the dungeons have chambers and passageways even my father did not know of."

"Right," Nelson said.

"Remember, stake through the heart, cut off the head, pull out fangs, dissolve fangs, then just chuck the heads off the cliff into the river. We don't have much time. At the very least, stake and decvapitate."

"C'mon guys, this ain't gonna be much fun," Nelson said as he shoulder his rifle and grabbed his mallet and stake.


	26. The Chase

The Chase

"Hurry!"

"Hyah!"

The hunters had caught up with Burns' caravan just as they reached the Borgo Pass. Burns, Violet, Smithers, and the rest of his party were being ferried by a clan of gypsies. Smithers leaned out the back of one of the wagons.

"Bandits!" he shouted in Roma. One of the gypsies looked at the mounted band behind them.

"Don't worry, we take care," he replied.

Bob was riding at the head of the group.

"Lookout!" he screamed as the gypsies opened fire. Bart fired back with his carbine. Homer unslung his shotgun and activated the laser sight. He fired, knocking killing one of the gypsies riding escort for the convoy. One of his fellow horsemen turned and returned fire with his revolver. Josh Wallach ducked the shot, then rolled to the side as the gypsy fired again. He took his samurai longbow and drew an arrow from his quiver. He took aim and drew back, inhaling sharply. With a hiss of exhalation through his teeth he let the arrow fly, and the gypsy gunman was struck in the back.

"Cover me, I am making a charge!" Mel cried, as he discarded his spent pistol and drew his cavalry saber from its saddle mounted scabbard. Brian fired but missed as he jerked to one side to avoid a salvo of bullets from a gypsy with a Kalashnikov. Homer fired his shotgun one-handed. The shot missed its intended target, and shattered one of the ribs of the covered wagon. He let go of the reins and fired again, with both hands, but the shot dispersal resulted in only a slight scratch on the gypsy's shoulder. He pumped the shotgun to fire again. A bullet whizzed past his head, severing his two remaining hairs.

"My hair! Okay Burns! Now its personal!"

"He did kidnap two of our children, Homer," Marge said as she fired blindly with her pistol, shooting to make their opponents duck and cringe than to kill.

"Oh yeah," he said. Homer removed the shell from the breach and placed in a solid slug cartridge. He took aim just as the AK-47 weilding gypsy stood up in the back of the wagon. The enormous wad of silver tore right through him and grazed the side of Smither's head. Smithers yelped and crouched down low as more gypsies from the proceding wagons clambered to aid their comrades.

Mel reached one of the riders and struck, slicing his throat. Another horsemen slowed his mount and dropped back to attack Mel. He fired, and a string of six bullets flew past Mel's side, one tearing his shirt and drawing a trickle of blood. Mel spurred his mount forward, guns firing to his front of him and to the back of him. The gypsy yelled and swung his rifle like a club. Mel blocked and countered. The gypsy caught Mel's strike with the barrel of his gun. Mel withdrew and struck, leaving a small cut in the gypsy's upper army. He stabbed, striking the gypsy's horse at the ear. The horses whinnied and stumbled on the rocky path, and the gypsy tumbled. A Roma leaned out from one of the carriages, hanging on to the ribbing, and fired with his revolver. Mel's horse was struck between the eyes, and it fell. Mel was spared by Krauser, who came up from behind him and pulled his onto his horse.

"Take the reins," he growled as he readied his pulse rifle. He squeezed the trigger down, killing the Roma who killed Mel's horse, and several of his fellows in the wagon. A Gypsy at the front of the wagon they were riding alongside aimed his rifle. Krauser cut him down, and continued to sweep the side of the carriage with his automatic rifle, slaughtering everyone inside.

The castle was in less than half a mile away. Krauser dropped back to the group, trading fire with the Gypsies while Mel manned the reins. The wagons roared into the courtyard, the Hunters on their tail.


	27. The End

The Courtyard

The wagons drew into a tight circle around the leader, a black funeral carriage. The Roma horsemen rode clockwise around the wagons, firing their pistols and rifles and waving their rusted swords. The hunters rushed and met them head on, striking and batting aside firearms with sword and knife. The Gypsies leapt from their carriages and wagons and rushed into the fray. Horses were tripped and shot and slain. Hunters and Roma were unseated, and the fight moved to the ground. A steady rat-a-tat rang out from the castle walls as Paul, Dante, and Rod fired the Thompson guns.

Bob ducked and weaved through the battle, slashing skilfully. More than once, he found himself pressed back-to-back with either Marge, Joshua, or Brian, only to push forward again, cleaving himself a path to the encircled wagons. He beheaded a Gyspsy, then saw, over the bleeding neck, Waylon Smithers.

"Hello there, Sideshow."

Bob sneered.

"Tell me: is it not disheartening to know that the man you killed is now going to kill you?"

"A bit humbling, perhaps. But I guess anyone can make a mistake." He adjusted his stance, holding his katana at a downward angle at his right hip. "But this time, Waylon, you won't be coming back."

Smithers laughed his cruel, nasal laugh, then drew an enormous claymore.

"That's my size," he laughed.

"More like compensation for it," Bob replied, his voice steady. Waylon raised his blade and rushed Bob. Bob blocked and countered, only to see his counterstrike deflected and have to duck to avoid decapitation. _He's certainly a better fencer, that's for sure._

A group of Gypsies broke ranks and cut their way through the fray, bearing with them tow large, squirming burlap sacs. Rod saw them heading for the castle doors and fired. The two Gypsies with the hostages kept running, while the others turned and returned fire. Rod saw one drop to one knee and fire a long tubular weapon. A swirling, smoking projectile was racing towards him and the others on the wall.

"Shit!" He screamed. He threw himself from the wall. Paul turned and saw the rocket just as it hit. He and Dante were thrown into the air in charred pieces.

Rod awoke in the face down in the snow. He barred his teeth and growled like a rabid dog. Roma fell before him, felled by one of Brian's shots. Rod took the battered sabre from his dead hands and with a bestial roar he charged at his foes. He struck wildly and with every ounce of his hatred. His sabre shattered, so he used the grip and handguard to punch and smash every face in sight. He dropped his impromptu brass knuckles and seized one adversary by the neck, intending to wring his neck like a plump capon. As he began to strangle him, the Gypsy drew his sidearm and point-blank fired into Rod's stomach. Rod growled, then seized the gun and turned it on it's owner. He fired again, and again. He fell to the snow, now pink with blood.

The two gypsies rushed along the darkened corridors, struggling with their wriggling captives. They reached the chapel. Both dropped their prisoners, who grunted "D'oh!" as they hit the stone floor. The Roma opened the door, only to be met with the business end of a shotgun.

"Hands in th'air, ye palm-readin' goatcheese eaters!" Seamus growled. Millhouse emerged from a door in the hall behind the Gypsies, holding his pulse-rifle. Alucard came after him, pistol raised, with the red dot of his laser sight right on one of the Gypsy's foreheads.

"Good work lads. Take their weapons and tie them up," Fr. O'Flaherty said. The three lead the Gypsies away, while Fr. O'Flaherty, Fr. Molloy, and Seamus set to releasing the two captive Simpson children. Seamus pulled his dirk from his stocking and sliced one of the sacs open. Maggie was inside. She was crying. Fr. Molloy helped her up while Fr. O'Flaherty opened the other bag. Eric was quiet, his eyes telling of his terrors.

"Patrick, Seamus, you take the bairns into the chapel and keep them safe. The sun's almost set, but no vampire can reach you in here now. The Gypsies are yer main concern. Seamus, be ready with that shotgun."

"Yes father."

"Father, where are you going?"

Fr. O'Flaherty did not answer, but strode swiftly into the chapel, and genuflected before the newly re-blessed altar. He walked around to the tabernacle, genuflected again, and opened it.

"To destroy Mr. Burns."

Smithers swung with all his strength. Sideshow Bob rolled under the swing, slashing Smithers' thigh as he did so. Smithers moaned and sank to one knee. He turned and attacked repeatedly. Bob block and parried, then deflected a swing and stepped past Smithers, using the momentum of the swing and a shove to make Smithers loose his control of his weapon. Bob struck swiftly, cutting Smithers' throat. Smithers gasped and shuddered. He felt for his neck, the looked at his hand, finding it dripping with his own swiftly-cooling blood. His shuddering breathes rose in clouds in the wintry air. He turned and threw himself at Robert for one last desperate attack. Bob sliced the top off of Smithers' head with one deft stroke. Smithers crumpled in the snow, twitching and dieing. Bob drew his tanto and drove it into Smithers exposed brain.

"No coming back this time, old chum."

Nelson, Millhouse, Alucard and Dolph broke through the Gypsies and made it into the centre of the wagons. They climbed upon Burns' hearse. Nelson readied a stake and hammer while Millhouse knelt beside the coffin, ready to open it on Nelson's signal.

"One…two…"

The sun had just crossed below the horizon.

"Thr-!"

The coffin flew open and Burns burst forth, gleaming sword in hand. He tossed Nelson aside like a rag doll, and kicked Millhouse so forcefully that he was thrown into one of the nearby wagons. Burns leapt over the wagons and began to march towards the castle.

Bart saw him, and was nearest to him. He beat away a Roma with his machete and rushed to stop Burns. Just at that moment, a shrill howl filled the air, and the courtyard became even colder. A pack of werewolves, fangs gleaming, mouths trailing saliva, rushed down the mountainsides and up the Borgo Pass, and came streaming into the courtyard. Hunter and Gypsy alike were pulled to the ground and torn to pieces. Meanwhile, from their earth boxes in the wagons emerged the Vampyr, Burns' personal guards, clad in black and red and wielding swords and crossbows. Those Gypsies that had their wits and their lives dropped their weapons and fled, only to fall prey to werewolves waiting outside the gates. Marge clenched her teeth and raised her sword. She let out a scream and charged at Burns. Burns heard her, and readied his ruddy sword. A thin silver blade caught him in the side. Mel had caught him off-guard, and pierced him with his rapier. Before he could retaliate, his arms were severed, one by Brian and one by Lisa. Homer struck with his axe, hitting Burns between the shoulder blades. Marge lunged and rived Burns through the heart, then, spinning on her heel, withdrew her katana and cleaved Burn's head from his shoulders. With a sigh of relief, the five rushed back to aid their friends. Something behind them suddenly threw them to the ground.

"Fools! I am Charles Foster Ka- d-I, er, Charles Montgomery Burns! I am an immortal! You cannot slay me! Die you worms!"

A dozen sword-wielding vampires came racing towards them, with twice as many werewolves running at their sides.

The castle doors flew open. Burns turned; the charging vampires and wolves froze. Fr. O'Flaherty was standing in the doorway, holding above his bowed head a single consecrated Host. The vampires screamed, and burst into flames. Their ashes begat ghostly blue flame that consumed their charred remains, then faded into the night. The wolves whined and ran, their tails between their legs. Burns screamed, raising his shrieking voice to the cold stars. He aged, his skin growing sagging and pale, his hair becoming greyer and scarcer, and his nose curving and lengthening. His skin grew loose and leprous, and began to fall from his face and melt into bubbling pools that then burst into flame. His skeleton hung suspended in the air for the briefest of moments, then, as if time had slowed, began to fall. The bones came out of joint, the fangs fell from their sockets. Blue flames materialized, and consumed the skeleton as in reached the ground. There was a flash and a puff of smoke, and Burns was finished.


End file.
